


The Illness's Illusion

by galacticmistake



Series: Boundaries Crossed [1]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Ambulance Setting, Anorexia, Anxiety, Blood, But yeah George is basically fucked, CPR, Depression, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exhaustion, F in the chat for Hazza, F in the chat for Paul, Flashbacks, Gen, Hinted autism discussion, Hospital Setting, Hurt/Comfort, ICU mention, John LITERALLY could not give less of a shit, John being a major asshole, M/M, Malnutrition, Meditation, Mention of mental hospitals, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Panic responses, Pneumonia, Respiratory Virus, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexual Humor, Sickfic, Sleep Deprivation, Stress, Uncensored use of the R slur, Weight talk, cancer mention, descriptions of illness, discussion of possibly disordered eating and sleep habits, lying, managerial incompetence, mention of poor sleep schedule, mentions of past parental death, physical violence, possibility of a hospital setting, possible caffeine overdose, public arguing, religious sentiments, the possibility of major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:39:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 32
Words: 30,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28463247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galacticmistake/pseuds/galacticmistake
Summary: The year is 1965. The Beatles are well into a U.S tour, and George, unfortunately, pushes himself too far to keep the fans and his fellow band mates happy. He only realizes this far too late.
Relationships: Brian Epstein & George Harrison, George Harrison & John Lennon & Paul McCartney & Ringo Starr, George Harrison & Paul McCartney, George Harrison & Ringo Starr, George Harrison/Ringo Starr
Series: Boundaries Crossed [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084871
Comments: 41
Kudos: 52





	1. One Realization and Two Conversations

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Depictions of severe illness, mentions of sleep deprivation and malnutrition, self-loathing conversation topics, discussion of the refrigerator mother conversation

_ October 30, 1965 _

_ Dear Lucy, _

_ I appreciate your writing to me and your curiosity in guitars. Currently, on our tour of the wonderful United States of America, I am using both a 1963 Gretsch Tennessean hollow body electric guitar and a 1963 Rickenbacker 360/12 thin line electric guitar. I also have a 1963 Gretsch Country Gentleman hollow body electric guitar that I use as a backup, just in case something were to happen with any of my other 2. As you can tell, I am quite a fan of Gretsch guitars, though Rickenbacker guitars are a close second amongst my ranking.  _

_ As for my current personal well-being, I am not doing too well. I have not slept in roughly 5 days (I will have to re-check with that), and have not consumed anything since coffee for the past 7, as coffee is the only thing that I have been able to consume without becoming violently ill. Please keep in mind that the only reason that I am being honest with you is because hopefully you have some amount of a medical background and can help me figure out why I have been ill for 3 weeks.  _

_ Unfortunately, if you prescribe rest, I will not be able to go forward with that, as the demand for American performances has skyrocketed, and we have had to book a second tour. With such a high fan demand also comes a high demand from management and the other band mates. And with such demands comes a certain amount of stress, as is normal in this industry. I feel as though the happiness of my fans and the happiness of our band should be a top priority and that sacrifices should be made. And, as a result, those sacrifices have been made, and I hope that they pay off.  _

_ Anyways, my apologies for burdening you with this. You simply wanted 2 questions answered, and I dumped a new load about my personal life. Again, my apologies, and I hope to see you at the concert tonight in New York.  _

_ Sincerely, _

_ George Harrison _

_ 3:39am _

******************************************************************************

George finally set the pen down and rested his head in his hands, a small relief from the almost 6 hours of responses to fan letters and going over the set list for the impending concert in New York City later that night. There was so much on the poor lad’s mind, from the concert, to the constant nagging from management and the band as a whole, and how much he missed his mom and the rest of his family and Pattie…

God, did he miss Pattie. He almost cried when he thought about it too much. 

But his thoughts were soon interrupted by a dry cough, and one that was drier than normal. Yes, he thought it strange that he had had this cough for a week, but it was now drier and it sounded more… What's a good word? Desperate? Severe? Chronic? All 3 of which are true, but not entirely accurate, it may seem.

Maybe he was just wanting the attention that the other 3 get on a regular basis. Maybe this was just a hair-brained scheme to get more people to notice who he was and the skills that he has to offer. 

But alas, this was no fake illness, as he found himself shuddering on the floor from the sheer force of it. He slowly sat up, waiting for the cute colored shapes in the corners of his eyes and the weightlessness to diffuse or just stop all together. It didn’t. Or rather, it did, but was replaced with this strange warm sensation in his face, which made no sense, as the rest of him felt eerily cold. There was also this strange feeling in his chest. One that he tried to brush off, but it was just making him more nauseous. 

And Brian Epstein was there too. 

“It’s 4 in the goddamn morning, George. Why are you still awake?” Brian asked, slightly infuriated, but more concerned than anything.

It took George’s vision a minute or 2 to focus back onto the manager, and even then, he couldn’t even be dared to look into Brian’s eyes. Partly due to shame, and also because the energy he did have had to be dedicated to forming a feasible response, or rather, one that a typically functioning human being could understand right away. 

“I um… uh… was doing… work.” George barely stammered out, still disoriented from having to sit himself up.

Brian stared sadly at the stack of letters ready to be sent back to the fans. For one, Brian was slightly impressed that George had the initiative to stay up to answer back to the desperate fans. He knew that George showed that drive and that passion to make people happy, and that might have been what made the fans like him so much. (Either that or those impressive cheekbones of his.) But another part of Brian knew that this wasn’t necessary, and that the letters could wait until a full night of sleep had been achieved. And that made him want to ask George a semi-personal question. 

“Why do you do this? The late nights writing back and practicing the songs that you know so well?” Brian inquired.

It took a bit for George to answer that question. He knew that whatever answer he gave was likely to get someone in trouble, John more than the others, and that’s why he knew that he couldn’t be too honest. 

“... just… I think it’s just the passion. Happy fans make for a much easier band experience. If the fans aren’t happy…”

“I get it, Geo. You just want people to be happy with you.”

“Maybe if I do this enough, I won’t be so much of a disappointment to the band. So…”

“Wait. Who said that you were a disappointment? If anything, you’re one of our greatest assets.”

“I wish it was easy to feel that. Ya know? I’m always just in the shadows of the spotlight. John and Paul, they’re the real immovables. And without Ringo, we wouldn’t have a beat to play to. Me… I’m probably more of a liability.”

“No, not in the slightest. With you on lead guitar, well… the songs wouldn’t sound quite as catchy.”

“Those riffs are all John’s idea, though. I’ve never written anything impressive enough for them. They just brush me off.” George sighed at the fact.

“Yeah, I noticed that John kinda treats you like a kid. I think I told him to stop, but you know John. He does what he wants, gives no fucks.”

“I kinda feel like I have to give all of the fucks that John doesn’t, and I just might be out of fucks. I know this tour just started, but I might already be on my last tether… I’m sorry, Bri.”

“No, no don’t apologize. Actually, take a bit longer of a break. Be back to answer letters at 8am, ok?”

Brian extended his hand to George, knowing that there was no way in hell that he could stand up on his own. George, hesitant at first, lightly placed his cold, slender fingers in the warm palm of the manager. However, he finally took the chance and placed his whole hand in. Brian took the skinnier hand in his own, gripped it, and yanked the younger man to his feet. As soon as George stood up, he began to sway a bit in an attempt to balance. 

“Now, if you don’t mind…” George said tiredly, “... I’m going to take my… 5 hour break. See ya in the morning.”

Brian stared at the wall adjacent to the door as George left, and grew weary as he heard a door open quietly, yet shut in a hurry. 

******************************************************************************

Mal sat at the edge of his bed anxiously. It didn’t make sense. Brian just went to check on George, a task that took maybe 5 minutes at most. Now, about 10 minutes later, and Brian still isn’t back. 

At last, Brian opened the door to their joint hotel room, still cautious as he thought that Mal was still asleep. But alas, he was not. 

“Mal? Why are you awake?”

“Oh, I’m not sure. Just was waiting to tell you something I thought of.”

“What did you think of?”

“It’s about the youngin of the band.”

“George? What did you think about him?”

“Not much. Just that I think he’s a bit… different from the rest of the band.”

“Well, yeah, obviously. But seriously, though. What do you mean?”

Mal paused for a second to gather his thoughts. He knew that he and Brian didn’t entirely see the boys the same, but they all agreed on their well-being. 

“He’s just different. Have you noticed how he is around haircuts?”

“A bit.” Brian sat down on the bed next to Mal’s. “I know he’s not fond of them. And he’s always kinda iffy afterwards. Almost like he’s in pain.”

“Yeah. Isn’t that strange?”

“A bit.” 

“He’s also observant. Like, on stage, when the lights come up, he flinches.”

“Yeah…”

“And he’s so damn quiet! Like, I kinda get it, but not to his extent! And it also seems like the parties we go to are overwhelming and exhausting!”

“Your point, though?”

“I think he might be-”

“No.” Brian cut him off without a second thought. “That can’t be the case. I’ve met his mum, and she’s a lovely lady who loves her whole family.”

“Those two factors aren’t linked anymore. They think it’s caused by something else.” 

“Huh. Go to sleep, though. We all need it.”

“OK. Night, Eppy.”

“Night, Mal.”


	2. Coffee and Concerns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: descriptions of illness, blood, discussion of possibly disordered eating and sleep habits

What was supposed to be an average morning quickly turned into one filled with suspicion and confusion. It did, however, start out as an average morning. John, Paul, and Ringo were sitting in the lobby of the hotel, all hoping to take advantage of the free continental breakfast that was provided. 

John already sat with a plate filled with buttered toast, 2 and a half croissants, a blueberry muffin, an apple, a banana, and a cup of coffee. Just by looking at the contents, it was easy to see that he was a tad bit stressed.

Paul, on the other hand, had only a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of coffee, but he was deep into the morning newspaper.

Ringo had a bowl of yogurt and an apple, but he didn’t care too much about that. There was something much more pressing on his mind. 

******************************************************************************

Not even 45 minutes later, George stumbled into the lobby, passing the table that the boys were sitting at, but leaning back ever so slightly so as to read a bit of the news that Paul was also reading.

“Hey, Paul. Did they get that guy yet?”

Paul looked up from the newspaper. “What guy?”

“There was that incident not too long ago. Did they catch him?”

“Yeah. Just recently. There’s also some protests about the whole Vietnam thing.”

“Sweet. I’m going to get some coffee and head back upstairs. We just got some more letters in.”

Paul looked up at the younger boy from his paper. He could see that George was unusually pale, but also a bit blue. 

Wait. Was that normal? 

He could also see the younger Beatle shaking almost violently, like he was just released from a walk-in freezer. And, what was that red stuff at the corner of his lips? It couldn’t have been blood. Nowhere close. That can’t happen.

Can it? 

“Gear. I’ll be up in a bit.” Paul replied, masking the fear that encompassed his face for those slight seconds. 

And with that, George left in search of a cup of black coffee. 

Paul turned back to John, who likely wasn’t even paying attention to anything but the buttered and jam-slathered toast. 

“Something’s off with Hazza.”

“Whaddya mean? He’s standing upright, ain’t he?”

“...Barely. He’s been like this for a bit, almost a week now. It’s definitely not normal.”

“Trust me, Macca. If he can still strum a guitar, he’s more than likely fine. Quit your worrying.”

In those few moments, a loud crash could be heard from the other side of the breakfast buffet, along with a very high-pitched scream. As Ringo turned towards the commotion, he found the scream to belong to a young girl with blond hair.

“Oh, goodness! It’s a miracle that I haven’t gotten my coffee yet!” she exclaimed.

In that moment, she saw the young, lanky guitarist attempt to stand up, as he was tightly gripping the edge of the counter next to him. As he got to his feet, his knees almost buckled and he gripped the counter with both hands. 

“My apologies, miss. It seems that maybe I was in too much of a hurry. Are you alright, though? Are you hurt?” he asked compassionately. 

“Oh, I’m doing quite alright, sir. The question should be, Are YOU alright?” 

“I’m fine, miss.” he lied. 

“Who’s that blonde over there?” Ringo asked Paul as he turned back to the table.

“Which blonde?”

“The one over there, talking to George.”

Paul turned to see the young blonde, noticing that George was barely even standing, turned back to the table, and held his face in his hands. 

“Oh, no, no, no, no. This cannot be happening.”

“She’s not hurt.”

“Yeah, I figured. I’m worried about him, though.”

Ringo turned back to notice a small stream of blood dripping onto the young lad’s brow and the shaking continuing on.

“Actually, has anyone else noticed this? Over the past 3 or so weeks, all the poor lad has had is coffee.” Paul remarked.

“I thought he had lunch with us yesterday, though.” John quipped.

“Tried to. He was at the table, what, 10 minutes?” Ringo added.

“If even. Hey, Ringo? Have you noticed anything strange?”

“Yeah, actually. He hasn’t slept in what, 5 days? I’d go to bed and he wouldn’t be there, and when I woke up, he still wasn’t there. But when he did sleep, he only would after, how do I put this politely, puking. Like, literally. He would be sick for a bit, and then crawl into bed.”

This caught Paul’s attention, and he was kind of nudging John in the elbow.

“Some nights he wouldn’t even make it into bed. He’d just lie on the floor and sleep.” 

“Maybe it’s just nerves.” John shot in. “I mean, think about it. We’re back in America on a stupid tour when we could be home recording the new album.”

“We only started the tour a week ago. This whole sick thing manifested 3 weeks ago. I get that he’s always been an anxious type, but this is ridiculous.” Paul snipped back. 

George walked past the table again, with a coffee in hand and his forehead still bleeding. 

“Hazza.” Paul remarked to him. “Maybe try investing in a Band-Aid before we head out?”

George shot a look that read, “That’s not important right now. And don’t look at me like that.”, and headed back upstairs. 

Brian came downstairs, and turned to the table with the remaining 3 musicians. 

“What the fuck happened? Hazza’s bleeding.”

“Wish I could answer that.” Ringo replied.

“Wasn’t me.” John answered instinctively. 

“Wasn’t saying that, Lennon. Anyways, we have an interview in an hour, so come on.” 


	3. Won't Admit To Anything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Depictions of illness, sleep deprivation, possible caffeine overdose, blood

It was all hustle and bustle backstage as the boys were getting ready for their performance. Powder foundation was being applied, ties were being straightened, vests and white collared shirts were being buttoned up, and combs slid through gorgeously maintained mop-tops. 

As John was buttoning his vest, he noticed something odd. 

It was George. For one, he didn’t look like his normal self. It may have just been the lights of the dressing room, but to him, George looked more pale and skeletal. His cheekbones were more sunken in than normal, and he overall looked more gaunt, almost emaciated, even. One could even tell from looking at the size of his arms.

And that shirt he wore was most certainly Ringo’s. 

That didn’t catch his attention, though. What caught his attention was what the boy was doing.

He seemed to be writing on a sheet of paper, one that he could tell Paul would be using later, as the word “Boston” was on the paper in bold black ink. 

However, before John could say anything, the skeletal boy turned the paper back over, and John noticed it to be the set list for the upcoming Boston concert. 

******************************************************************************

George couldn’t deny that he was cold. After all, it was New York City in October. However, this level of being cold was… odd.

And that’s something that Paul noticed straight away.

“Hey, Geo.”

It took some effort for George to realize who was talking to him, but as soon as he did, he could feel his heart drop. 

“Look at ya, mate. Ya look horrendous.”

“Mate,” Geo said, “I didn’t think I was that ugly.”

“I’m not saying that you’re ugly. I’m saying you look…”

“Look ...?”

“Cadaverous, corpse-like, even. Basically, I don’t think you’re effectively taking care of yourself.”

“I’m ok! Geez, you don’t sleep for 5 days and everyone thinks ya got 1 foot in the grave! Relax, Paulie, I’m ok and I’m going to be ok.”

“You say that now, but you’re so tired now, that after the concert-”

“Ya tired, Hazza? I’ll get you some coffee to last the concert.” John shouted out. 

“Thanks. I appreciate it, Lens!”

“John, no.” Paul snipped. “You’re only going to make it worse.” 

“Yeah, John. And besides, I’d need 5 cups if I wanted to make it through the concert and be ok.”

“That sounds like a caffeine overdose.” Ringo shouted from across the room. “Oh, and Geo? I won’t be too mad if you ruin my shirt, but please be careful. I don’t want you getting hurt again.”

George started to pull at the Band-Aid on his forehead.

“Rings, you don’t need to worry. I’ll be fine.” As George finished that statement, he yanked off the Band-Aid and blood started running down the young man’s face. “See? Totally fine!”

******************************************************************************

And down went the 5th cup of coffee.

Everyone, including Paul, stared in amazement. Well, yes, George had drunk an astounding amount of coffee over the past 3 weeks, nothing beat 5 cups in roughly 20 minutes. And with only 5 minutes to curtain, the feat was even more impressive. 

“What?” George shot out. “We have a show to play and an audience to impress. Let’s go!” 

And he and Ringo ran to the wings.

“Hey, Macca.” John whispered in Paul’s ears. “Bet ya 10 quid that he’ll violently crash afterwards.” 

“Such a cruel bet to place, but you better believe me. It’s on.” Paul whispered back, with a 10 pound note in his pocket. 

“Now where are we headed fellas?” John inquired.

“To the toppermost of the poppermost!” They all yelled in unison. 

That was the last time that any of them saw George with the illusion of him being ok. 


	4. Dire Straits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Depictions of severe illness

The concert ended without a hitch. “Twist and Shout” was a hit with the crowd, as it always was, and “Roll Over Beethoven” got all the fangirls screaming and dancing. Overall, NYC was a success, as usual. 

As everyone ran off, there was a strange and tense feeling backstage, one that couldn’t be ignored. The backstage crew knew it, Mal knew it, even their roadies knew it. Brian, however, was on the phone with the big news companies, prepping for the press conference later tonight. 

As John and Paul rushed to their dressing rooms to prep, Ringo stayed behind a bit, in case anyone was looking for any of them. 

In all reality, Ringo had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach for the duration of the performance. Even with George turning around every so often to reassure him, it wouldn’t go away. In fact, the feeling worsened when George looked at him. 

But he had every reason to feel that way. Especially now that George was finished packing his guitars and loading them into the van. And now more than ever, he noticed something odd about the lead guitarist. 

“Why are you staring at me?” George asked, but even that sounded unusual. 

And there was the problem. 

George stood with one arm leaned up against the brick wall, struggling to keep himself up at all. His ashen forehead was drenched in sweat, and his eyes were sunken in and framed with dark circles, almost like a bad drawing of a skeleton. The rest of him looked like the average stick figure drawing, but humans aren’t supposed to look like that. 

“Geo… here. Can I talk to you?” Ringo asked while walking towards him. 

“What? No, Ringo, I’m fine, it just-” 

At that moment, Ringo knew something had to be done, so he pulled George closer to the dressing rooms and leaned him against the wall. Then, he gently pressed his hand against the younger’s forehead.

It was hot. Too hot. 

“Christ, Hazza. You’re burning up and you haven’t had the decency to let anyone know,” Ringo chuckled a bit at that thought. He knew that George tried to be independent to the most that the band would let him, and even then, he wouldn’t budge on what little freedoms he had. 

“Try telling me that, Ringo. I’ve been cold almost all day.”

At this point, George was still shivering, but the bluish tint in his face was completely overtaken by the flush across his cheeks. This was concerning to Ringo. 

“Hey, stay here a minute. I’m going to get Paul. He’ll be able to help more than me.”

******************************************************************************

“Paul. It’s me.”

Paul swung open the door to his dressing room to see Ringo.

“Ringo? What’s going on? You’re not ready for the-”

“That doesn’t matter. Listen, it’s George.” Ringo whispered to Paul. “Don’t panic, but he’s in really bad shape. He’s got a fever like you wouldn’t believe, and at this point, I don’t know what’s going to happen to him.”

Faint wheezing could be heard, and as soon as Paul heard it, his heart dropped almost to the floor. 

“I’ll take Geo if you go alert Mal?” 

“You’ve got it.”

******************************************************************************

As soon as Paul got to George, it was even beyond a sight to behold, as he somehow looked even worse than beforehand. 

On top of the skeletal frame and sunken in eyes and the hot and cold internal conflict that comes with a fever, his lips and fingertips were now this almost unsightly vibrant blue, and the wheezing sound that emanated sounded less like breathing than it did a desperate cry for help. 

Paul held a hand to George’s drawn and angled face to push the mop-top out of his eyes and to see if the fever was really as bad as Ringo was letting on, and truly, it was.

Instinctively, Paul wrapped George’s twig-like arm around his shoulder and hoisted him away from the wall.

“Here ya go. I’ve got ya. Now, whatever you do, now, no matter how rubbish you feel, Do. Not. Let go of my shoulder. OK?”

Hazza gave a weak thumbs up and a slight nod as Paul began to walk towards the dressing rooms. 

******************************************************************************

Admittedly, the walk there felt like a hike from NYC to the Canadian border for George, who probably should have just let Paul carry him there. As the journey went on, he began to feel worse.

There was a pervasive dizzy feeling. For Paul, everything was fine, if not going a bit slower than he would have liked. But for George, it was like a tilt-a-whirl, but from hell. Everything in his surroundings was spinning, and he felt unusually light. It’s a good thing that Paul told him to hang on, otherwise he would have completely lost any semblance of balance or coordination. 

But the journey was just too long for both of them. And George could feel his grip on the bassist’s shoulder loosen just enough for Paul to take notice. 

“We’re almost there, just hang on, ok?” 

Paul took another couple of steps forward, and realized that George wasn’t keeping pace. In fact, he was dragging by, quite literally on his last legs. Paul stepped back, and saw a desperate look in the lead guitarist’s eyes. 

One that almost pleaded for Paul to just give up and let go. 

“I’m not letting you go. Trust me.”

A flurry of uncontrollable tears streamed down those hollowed cheekbones. 

“Just let go. Give up, Paul. It’s not worth it.”

“No. George, you are literally the closest thing I have to family right now. I am not losing you.” 

George fell to his knees, and earnestly tried to stand on his own, but the backstage hallways began to spin even more, and his breathing quickened, and his chest tightened. And he looked up at Paul with a knowing that it wasn’t ok, that he was lying to everyone about how he really felt, and he needed to amend that wrong. 

“Paul, I’m sorry…” 


	5. Oh Shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Panic responses, possibility of a hospital setting, CPR, the possibility of major character death

_“Paul, I’m sorry…”_

Just a minute prior, Paul was desperately holding onto the shoulders of his dearest friend, and practically his baby brother, trying to get him to muster up the courage to just hold on to get to the dressing rooms.

Now the lead guitarist laid on the ground, definitely unresponsive, and practically probably dead. And now, those areas that previously had a smidge of blue were now resemblant of the cerulean morning skies. 

There was a solid minute of silence as Paul stood trying to figure out what to do. Eventually, something in him told him to turn George over. So he did. And still, no response. 

The screams that ensued could be heard throughout the entirety of the building. 

******************************************************************************

Not even 5 minutes later, Mal and Ringo came rushing to Paul in a state of chaos, not entirely knowing what they were all about to witness or partake in. 

“Paul! What’s going on?”

“Mal? Mal! Oh, thank God!”

“Yeah, I’m here.” Mal stated, and then looked at George. “What happened?”

In that instant, Paul broke down. 

“I -I tried to get him-”

Ringo swiftly moved to Paul, and started rubbing his shoulders to calm him down. 

“I was walking him to the dressing rooms. I knew he wasn’t in the best shape, but-”

“Is he still warm?” Ringo asked. 

“I bet.”

Mal brought his hand to the unconscious man’s forehead, and quickly brought it back to his other hand. 

“Yeah. More than warm, in fact. I’m pretty damn scared myself.” 

Paul completely broke down. 

“I told him to hold on! I thought I could help, but clearly not! I… I can’t lose him!” Paul yelled out in between broken, shuddering sobs. Ringo held Paul close to him as he began to think of how to assess the situation. 

“I can’t lose him either.” Ringo whispered to him. It was the only thing he could think to say as a response. 

“MEDIC!” Mal yelled out. 

In no time, a young medic, most likely no older than 30, came running out to Mal. 

“Hey, Mr. Evans. What’s the problem?"

“We don’t have time for small talk, young man. This boy,” he snipped out, pointing to George, “is horribly sick and I don’t think we can do this alone.”

The medic took one look at George and spat out, “Fuck. I can’t do much. CPR might help, but it might not be fast enough.”

“If he has to go to the hospital, Brian has to know about it.” Mal retorted. 

“Sir, I really think he needs to go to the hospital. This is too much for just me.”

Mal and Ringo stood up. 

“I’ll let Brian know. Ringo, come on. We need to tell Brian. God only knows where the fuck he is.”

As the two ran to find their manager, the medic turned to Paul. 

“Do you know CPR?” he asked.

Paul shook his head. 

“Fine, I’ll get you started. You might want to unbutton his shirt.” 

Paul began to, but was almost horrified as he finished unbuttoning. The young man’s ribs stuck out at a level that he might as well start hanging in a science display. And even those ribs were a shade bluer than one would ever expect at this stage. He hadn’t seen George in this state since their early days. Hell, he didn’t even know if Ringo had seen him this scrawny and thin. 

“Ok, that’s unnerving, but you’ll have to get over that for a bit. Now, let me show you how to do chest compressions.”

******************************************************************************

“Brian? Hey, Brian!” 

Mal was practically shaking Brian Epstein to get his attention, but to no avail. He was on the phone with multiple news outlets and media companies confirming tonight’s big press conference. 

Ringo couldn’t believe his eyes. 

******************************************************************************

Roughly 10 minutes later, an ambulance pulled up to the venue, scrambling to get their equipment ready and the gurney rolling out. As soon as they were ready, at least 2 paramedics and a gurney came rushing by. 

Brian didn’t notice. But Ringo did, and he tried to make himself a fly on the wall in the chaos. All Mal could do was stand in horror. 

As they were about to load George in, Mal made one last effort to get Brian to see the situation.

“BRIAN!”

Brian slowly hung up the phone as he stared at the chaos unfolding. There, in the gurney, laid George, who may as well have been long dead and gone from the looks of things, and 2 paramedics staring the manager down. 

“You’re Mr. Epstein? This young man’s manager?” A paramedic asked. 

“Yes… what seems to be the matter?”

Everyone stood in shocked silence. Finally, Mal snapped. 

“What’s the matter? What’s the fucking matter? Ringo and I have been trying to get your attention for 10 fucking minutes! We are in a dire fucking situation and you wouldn’t bother to hang up the god damn phone! George might fucking die! What would we do then? What, Brian? Would you call someone to permanently replace him?” 

It was so quiet one could hear a pin drop in a haystack, and the tension was so thick, it could only be pierced with a motorized chainsaw. 

“Make a decision that benefits this band. Either go with him, or don’t. But if you don’t, we’ll never figure out what’s going on with George. And wasn’t that your concern?” 

Brian sighed in defeat. “I’ll come with.”

As soon as he boarded that ambulance, it drove off in a hurry, lights flashing and all. Mal stood at the entryway feeling empty and unsure of the immediate future. 

“Is George going to die?”

Mal turned back around to see Ringo with tears in his eyes.

“No. Or at least we hope not. They’ll figure it out.”

In the distance, a silhouette vaguely resembling John and an awkward shroud on his right side inched slowly to Mal and Ringo. Upon closer inspection, that shroud turned out to be Paul, who was wrapped in a maroon shock blanket, and his face streaked red from tears. 

“Hey, Mal? Wanna tell me why the fuck I heard paramedics outside my door? And why Paul’s crying so damn hard?”

Mal looked sadly at Paul, and then back at John.

“I’ll explain when the adrenaline wears off. Come on.”

As they started walking back to John’s dressing room, Ringo felt a twinge of fear, and he quickly looked back. Seeing nothing, though, that twinge didn’t dissipate. If anything, he was more scared about his best friend than he was about the future of the band. 


	6. Calm The Upcoming Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mentions of past parental death

It was oddly quiet amongst the 3 remaining Beatles and the frazzled assistant that watched over them. They had all huddled in John’s dressing room, mainly so that Mal could keep an eye on them all, but also to ensure that anyone who needed to talk about what happened could do so, even though only 75% of the room had any clue about the situation. 

Mal stood in the corner of the room, keeping an eye on the boys. John stood in front of the mirror, freshening up for the press conference that was only an hour away. Ringo and Paul, however, were in the closet of the dressing room. Paul was still curled up in the maroon shock blanket, and his head was rested on Ringo’s lap. Ringo was trying to hold back his own tears as he sat against the wall. 

Eventually, Mal thought to go clear his mind for a split second. He also realized that the boys hadn’t had dinner yet. 

“Hey, lads. I’ll be back in a bit. Gonna get ya some burgers.”

“Cool.” John replied. 

******************************************************************************

5 minutes after Mal left, Paul decided that he needed to talk to John. 

“But, I don’t want to tell him too much…”

“So far, it’s only John who has no idea what’s going on anymore.” Ringo replied. “Are you scared of his reaction?”

“Maybe.” Paul admitted. “I’ve seen how he is towards you and Geo when things don’t exactly work out. I don’t want Geo getting more hurt, y’know?”

“I get it. The thing is, though. The truth will come out eventually. John will find out somehow. But, yeah. I understand you wanting to keep George safe.”

John turned his attention to the closet. 

“What are you two chatting about in there?” John inquired. 

Paul slowly stepped out of the closet, the blanket still tight around his shoulders and his face streaked red with tears. 

“I just remembered…”

John turned around.

“... when my mum died…”

John wrapped his arms around Paul in a loving embrace.

“I know… it was so tragic…”

“It really was…”

Ringo sat silently in the closet, not wanting to admit why Paul was really upset. Granted, the sudden collapse and overall deterioration of their lead guitarist had probably triggered some harsh memories from Paul’s youth. 

John had held onto Paul for quite some time, and no one even noticed that Mal had returned with their unconventional McDonalds dinner. 

******************************************************************************

They all ate their burgers in silence. Well, mostly silence. John couldn’t resist the urge to crack a joke to attempt to lighten the mood. 

“Ya know, if George were here, we might have needed more burgers.”

“No, not really.” Paul whispered. “If I can be honest, I doubt he would have ever been in the mood for these.”

“What makes you say that, Paulie?”

“Look. I’ve known him longer than you have. I’m also closer to him than you are. So, safe to say…”

“I get the joke, but it’s not really the time for that.” Ringo shot up. 

“They’re expecting us soon, boys. So start getting ready.”

They freshened up in silence, with John not wanting to accidentally piss off Paul again, and Paul not in the mood to be pissed off again. 

5 minutes later, Mal swung open the dressing room door. 

“Ready, fellas? You’re on!”

As they started to walk out of the room, Mal grabbed Paul by the shoulder and dragged him to the side for a second. 

“Hey, Macca. I get that you’re still upset. OK? Keep calm, though. If it helps, I’ll sit by you. Would you like me to do that?”

“Sure. Thanks, Mal.”

As they walked into the conference room, they were greeted by the flashes of cameras and the insistence of the press. 


	7. Clarity For the Fan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Ambulance setting, hospital setting, managerial incompetence

The ambulance was nothing short of hectic. Actually, to say that it was hectic would be an understatement. As it drove through the bustling traffic of the Big Apple, the true chaos of the situation began to unfold.

Two paramedics, one on either side of George, began to work tirelessly on the young man. One was performing CPR, while the other was attempting to take some sort of sign that the youngest Beatle was still alive. 

At first, Brian was just clueless. He knew that something bad must have happened when he was being confronted by two paramedics to figure out what unfolded in the past 10 minutes. Now, not only was he clueless, he was also scared. He was scared for the future of the Beatles, and the future of those 4 mop-topped troublemakers from Liverpool. 

Brian had many questions that had far too many answers. What if he was just ok, but needed a long rest? What if he was left unable to work for the rest of his life? How would the other three cope? What if he woke up and completely lost any sense of who he was? What if he woke up, but was clearly not the same, and would never be the same?

What if he never woke up?

What if it was far too late for George?

What would happen if they couldn’t save his life?

He sat to the side of the ambulance, his hands holding his hair with a death grip and a wanting for everything to turn out ok.

******************************************************************************

The doors of the quiet St. Mary’s Hospital flung open with such an urgency that one could certainly hear its impact from well into Maine. And the footsteps that followed sounded less like footsteps and more like a herd of wild bulls stampeding a small town in Spain. 

“I don’t get all of the fuss. They know the protocol.” One doctor slyly remarked. 

“I know, right? Chill, you two! It’s not like a Beatle came through or anything.” Another joked.

The two paramedics ran in the room, and the other two doctors were able to see that the gurney was holding a very noticeable George Harrison.

“Oh shit.” The first doctor muttered. 

******************************************************************************

In the distance stood a nurse, staring at the red polish on her fingernails. Her tan skin seeming much warmer under the harsh lights of the trauma bay, and her chocolate brown eyes filled to the brim with boredom and impatience. As she looked up into the bay, a strand of ebony black hair twirled in between her fingertips. 

Her name was Lucy. And almost all of the other staff stood in awe of her skills and her bravery. 

She walked forward to meet the two paramedics. 

“Alright, boys. What the fuck’s going on?” she asked.

Her stone cold eyes met Brian’s worry-filled eyes. 

“And who the fuck are you?”

“Ma’am, if you please. My name is Brian Epstein, and-”

“And you can wait in the waiting room.”

“Huh?” Brian pondered.

“Go. You’re obviously here for a reason, but in order to situate this situation, I need space to work. So please, sir. Leave. This waiting room has plenty of chairs open.”

“Do you have a telephone?”

“Yeah…”

On that note, Brian swiftly ran to find the waiting room.

“So, what happened here?”

One paramedic chimed in. 

“This, Lucy, is George Harrison.”

“Wait.” Lucy stopped him. “That George Harrison? Like. The BEATLE?”

“Yes. Anyways, we were called to the Palladium because he collapsed and has been having issues breathing.”

“Is he running a fever?”

“Yes, we believe it’s at 102 or 103.”

Lucy glanced over at George, and an anxious sneer formed on her face. She grabbed a thermometer and placed it carefully under George’s tongue. When she eventually took it out, she was startled.

It read 103.7 degrees. 

“Boys, get him situated. I’m going to need to take a closer look at him.”

As they took the gurney, a younger doctor lightly tapped her shoulder. 

“The fuck do you want?” She asked.

“Lucy… you have a letter. It’s from a Mr. George Harrison. I didn’t open it, but it’s on the table for you.”

“Ok… I literally have a patient right now, though. His name is George… Harrison… wait a fucking fuck. I’ll be back. Keep an eye on him.”

******************************************************************************

She scanned the letter thoroughly, as though she were reading an ancient sacred text. It was no secret that she loved the fab 4, so much so that she was even allowed time to attend the concert that night.

But nothing at the concert set off any alarm bells. 

Even when not at work, she could usually tell when something seemed off. But nothing was off tonight.

Maybe it was just the excitement of being in the presence of her favorite musicians that made her not so observant.

But as she read the letter, it all made more sense. 

_ I have not slept in roughly 5 days…  _

“That’s odd. Why not?” She muttered to herself. “Poor guy, you must be exhausted.”

_ and have not consumed anything since coffee for the past 7…  _

“Wait, what? For one, it’s  _ but  _ not  _ since _ . Oh well. What can you change when you’re exhausted? But only coffee? My God, boy.”

_ as coffee is the only thing that I have been able to consume without becoming violently ill.  _

“Ah. That explains it a bit. That doesn’t help, though.”

She scanned through the letter for a bit longer, and she found something else that stood out. 

_ Unfortunately, if you prescribe rest, I will not be able to go forward with that, as the demand for American performances has skyrocketed, and we have had to book a second tour.  _

“Oh, my. That’s wild. I guess the demand has been quite high recently, but wow.”

_ With such a high fan demand also comes a high demand from management and the other band mates.  _

“I’ve heard you’re at the height of your fame, but this just seems downright ridiculous, doesn’t it?”

_ And with such demands comes a certain amount of stress, as is normal in this industry.  _

“A certain amount, yes. But maybe not the amount that you’re going through.”

_ I feel as though the happiness of my fans and the happiness of our band should be a top priority and that sacrifices should be made. And, as a result, those sacrifices have been made, and I hope that they pay off. _

“It depends on the kind of sacrifice. But whatever the type, you’ve clearly done it to an extreme.”

She folded the letter tightly in her left hand.

“And look where you are now. It would be wrong of me to not correct this problem.”

******************************************************************************

Lucy stormed back into the trauma bay and quickly tried to assess the situation. George still laid unconscious, barely breathing, and sweating like he was on a beach in the middle of August. She took his temperature again. 103.9 degrees. 

It was getting worse every second they stood idle.

“You two remain on standby.” She ordered the paramedics. “Actually, one of you get me the head doctor. He needs to be admitted.”

“Wait, wait. How did you come back just now and figure it out?”

“Well, let’s see. He’s not awake, temp spiked .2 degrees, which at this point could be a life-or-death situation, and he’s still blue.” She paused. “Did none of you think to give him a face mask?”

“Well, we thought CPR would help.”

“He has a heartbeat. In fact, his heart rate is too high.” She stated as she placed a stethoscope over his chest. “Yep. Heart’s too fast.”

“Then what’s the problem, Lucy?”

“HE’S NOT FUCKING BREATHING.”

Another nurse ran in with an oxygen mask and began oxygen therapy.

“That might not be enough, but I appreciate the effort, dear.”

In no time, the head doctor rushed in.

“What in the name of all that is holy is going on here? It’s 10:30pm and I’m hearing shouting!”

“Well…” Lucy began, “...we have a patient here running an almost 104 degree fever and barely breathing, if at all. And these two FUCKWITS are doing NOTHING about it! So yeah, I’m stressed. This man cannot die on us.”

The head doctor sighed and placed his head in his hand.

“Get him to the ICU. Immediately. Lucy, keep an eye on him.”

“Finally, someone who UNDERSTANDS!” She yelled in frustration.

Lucy was always careful with her cases, but this time, she knew she had to keep a close eye on him. Yet somehow, she knew he would make it.

It might take a miracle or two, but she was certain. 

******************************************************************************

The clock read 10:45pm. Brian knew that in any other circumstance, he would be doing a press conference. But obviously, fate had led him somewhere else. 

He was slouched by the telephone of the waiting room, just having gotten off the phone with Mal. He was stressed, scared, and exhausted. All he wanted now was someone to give him an explanation. 

And that’s when someone called him.

“Brian? Brian Epstein?”

He rubbed his hair out of his eyes, and walked towards the door to respond to the voice that called him.

“Ah, Mr. Epstein. Nice to meet you. My name is Lucy. I’ve been keeping an eye on Mr. Harrison.”

“Ah. Ms. Lucy.”

“You can call me Dr. Lucy, sir. I didn’t go to medical school just to be called “Ms.” Anyways, about Mr-”

“Is he OK?” Brian cut her off, hopeful.

“...not at the moment, sir. He’s in the ICU right now. We’re working on getting his fever down as well as getting him breathing with little to no assistance.”

His heart dropped, and he began to cry.

“Sir? I haven’t lost hope yet. But, I’m a bit curious.”

“About what?”

“Did you see him before he collapsed?”

Brian began to think back to after the concert. He hadn’t seen anyone, to be honest. He had more important things to do, so even though he should have been keeping a more careful watch, for some reason it felt like less of a priority than the immediate conference. He felt like a fucking dunce for not being more vigilant. 

“...No, ma’am. I had other matters to take care of.”

“Well, did you at least know that he was awake for 5 days straight and only consuming coffee?”

“What? No. Well, I kinda knew about the coffee. But 5 whole days?”

No wonder George seemed so out of sorts, Brian realized. The poor lad hadn’t slept in 5 days nor had he eaten for 21 days. 

“So, you knew he hadn’t eaten for 3 weeks, but you didn’t know about the sleep deprivation? And you did NOTHING to correct EITHER PROBLEM?”

“To be fair, Dr. I only knew about one of the problems.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you did nothing about it, Mr. Epstein! You have to realize. Had the emergency services been called even 1 minute later…” Lucy found it almost impossible to finish the sentence, and tears began to stream down her face. 

“...He could have died before the ambulance arrived.” She finally choked out. 

At that point, the gravity of the situation finally hit Brian like a metric ton of bricks. He knew he was irresponsible at times, but this time, it almost had disastrous consequences. 

The silence was deafening. 

“Thank you, Dr. Now, if you don’t mind, I have business to attend to.” He slunk off in shame. 

Lucy turned back, about to head back to work. 

“I hope I got through to him…”

In the waiting room, Brian rang the telephone yet again. 

“Hello? It’s me, Brian. I was wondering if someone was available to pick me up from St. Mary’s Hospital. I have information for Mal Evans.”


	8. Seeking Answers and Finding A Lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mentions of hospital/ICU setting, possible major character death, managerial incompetence

The analog clocks read 10:45pm. Mal Evans, Paul McCartney, John Lennon, and Ringo Starr entered the conference room of the venue and were greeted with flashing cameras and reporters who asked too many questions.

“Mr. Lennon, what’s your response to the growing fame of the band?”

“Mr. McCartney, your bass playing was exquisite tonight. Are you self-taught?”

“Mr. Ringo, is it true that you and your wife are expecting?”

As they sat down at the table, the room fell silent. There were only 4 instead of 6. And the manager was nowhere to be seen. 

“We will begin answering questions now.” Mal stated.

“Mr. Evans... where are Mr. Epstein and Mr. Harrison?” One reporter inquired. 

“Mr. Epstein will hopefully arrive and be ready for questions within the next couple of minutes, if he isn’t too busy with other matters, that is.” Mal clarified.

“And Mr. Harrison?”

Mal paused for a minute. He looked at the rest of the table to check on the other boys. Paul looked like he was on the verge of tears and could start crying because of a piece of lint on a reporter’s coat. Ringo just looked back at Mal as if to say “Yeah, what about Mr. Harrison?” And John just looked like he had no idea what the fuck was happening. 

“....I don’t have an answer at the moment. All I knew is that he took ill after the performance. Next question.”

The questions continued, however, and Mal tried his hardest to block out those about George and/or Brian. 

“Mr. McCartney. A fan wrote to our magazine and is wondering what brand of mascara you use.”

“I don’t wear makeup.” Paul replied vacantly.

“....Are you alright, sir?”

“I’ve had better days. Just tired from the performances, I guess.”

“Mr. Starr, it’s been rumored that among young children, you’re their favorite of the fab 4. Are you good with kids yourself?”

“I’m not sure, actually. Yes, they can be quite charming, but I haven’t had much experience with them. So, no comment.” Ringo said. 

The reporters found that the light-hearted questions received better responses, so they focused solely on those. 

******************************************************************************

Roughly 15 minutes into the press conference, someone notified Mal that someone else was attempting to get his attention. Mal turned towards the corridor and found that Brian was standing there. 

“Excuse me one second. Someone wants to talk to me. However, the boys are still open for questions.” Mal managed to say as he slipped out of the room. 

The press focused on the boys and largely ignored the conversation in the hallway. 

“Hey, Mal.” Brian whispered.

“...What the fuck happened, Bri? Is George not with you?”

“Not at the moment. He’s in the ICU, actually.”

“He’s in the WHAT.”

“Mal. Calm down. They’re getting this figured out.”

“Well, at least he’s not dead.”

“...yet.” Brian managed to stutter.

“What do you mean by that, Brian? Wh-are you trying to say that he alMOST FUCKING DIED?”

“Had you been any later calling 911.”

“I didn’t call 911. The backstage medic did. He had to teach Paul how to do CPR so that he could call 911. If you had actually been observant, you could have called, but no.”

“You know how vigilant those press people can be, Mal. You’ve dealt with them.”

Mal gave Brian a cold, hard stare. 

“This is a life or death situation, Brian. The press could have waited. Now, we need to figure out what to do if George fucking dies tonight! Think about it. If he were to die in the next 5 minutes, we have no backup plan, no way to tell the boys or even his family. God forbid Pattie were to ever find out about it! We are unprepared.”

Brian thought to himself for a bit. He began to realize that they were generally unprepared for this situation, and that he had better start praying that it didn’t get worse from here. 

“Swap? I’ll talk to them and you go to St. Mary’s and check up on George? The car’s ready for ya.”

“Sure. Why not?”

******************************************************************************

As soon as Brian entered the conference room, the reporters just couldn’t hold back their questions. 

“Give me a damn minute to sit down!” He yelled out. 

As soon as he sat down, the questions kept flooding in.

“Mr. Epstein, what are your plans for the upcoming tour?”

“Any word on the progress of the new album?”

“Is there another movie in the works?”

None of them fazed him in the slightest, so he answered the best that he possibly could.

“More shows, obviously. We’re headed to Boston tomorrow.”

“We’ve almost finished, but due to demand for live shows, we’ve halted recording for this tour.”

“No, not at the moment. However, we’re hoping to do an adaptation of  _ Lord of the Rings  _ in the future.”

However, as calm and collected as he seemed, he wasn’t prepared for what was to come.

“Mr. Epstein? Mr. Evans told us you were working earlier? What kind of work was it?”

“Oh, just general stuff. Organizing performance dates, setting up interviews, dinner reservations. You know, the like.”

“Ok. And was Mr. Harrison with you when you were working?”

“He was.”

“Where is he now?”

He paused for a second, not sure of how to answer the question. Finally, an answer came to him. It wasn’t the truth, but it had to work for now. 

“He was tired, so I took him back to the hotel to get some rest. He should be back in fighting shape for tomorrow, though.” Brian lied straight through his teeth. 

Paul slammed his head straight into the table in frustration. A small, unnoticeable groan escaped his lips. 

After 5 minutes of awkwardness, Brian called off the press conference, took the boys, and began to escort them to the car. 


	9. The One Where Emotions Are Released

Ringo, Paul, and John crammed into the back of the car while Brian sat shotgun. 

The ride was quiet, and no one thought too much of it. In fact, they were all trying to wrap their heads around the happenings of the press conference. No one could figure out how or why it went the direction that it went, and no one bothered to tell the truth.

John still didn’t know what was actually going on, and he made a rather odd comment.

“Y’know, I can’t wait to get back to the hotel. I still never gave George his comments about the concert.”

Ringo gulped anxiously. He knew that he hadn’t gotten his comments from John either, and if he was going to ream George for some minute reason, then he was going to get reamed for a similar reason. 

“I never got my comments either. Actually, no one got their comments.”

“You want yours now, Rings?”

“Sure. If it makes the ride less awkward. I’m sure Brian has his comments too.”

John took a deep breath before he began. 

“Ok, I actually don’t have any. Except, when George would look at you during the show, you looked a bit scared. I’m not sure if it showed to the audience, but all in all, you did good tonight. Maybe just try to be more positive on stage.”

“You’re right, John. I was scared. But I don’t think you’d understand why.” Ringo thought to himself. “If only you had paid attention to his face…”

Ringo kept his thoughts inwards, though, and turned to stare out of Paul’s window. 

Paul had been silently crying, as he had smaller tears running down his face. He wasn’t sure if the paparazzi had noticed this, but as the night went on, he didn’t have the energy to give a shit. 

Eventually, it had occurred to him that maybe the cameras couldn’t catch him at this distance. 

“Hey, Eppy? You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

“Wouldn’t mind what, Macca?”

“If I let something go.”

“Yeah, sure. Go ahead.”

In almost no time, Paul started crying harder. As he leaned into Ringo’s shoulder, Ringo could feel Paul’s sorrow and fears, and he cried a bit as well.

Brian sat facing the front window, trying to hold back tears.

“Eppy? What are we going to do without him?” Paul asked in between sobs.

“If I can be honest, Macca? I don’t know.”


	10. A Card For A Lost Cause

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Hospital setting, religious sentiments

Mal stood outside the hospital gift shop for approximately 30 seconds before he walked in, his heart heavy with sadness and anger. He was sad because he knew that George didn’t deserve what was happening to him, and he was angry because he possibly allowed it to happen. 

He should have pulled Brian straight off the damn phone.

He should have noticed earlier that George was unwell.

He shouldn’t have agreed to a second tour in a span of one year. 

Why on God’s green Earth did he ever agree to the second tour?

As he walked into the gift shop, he was overtaken by the sheer selection of items. There were giant teddy bears, balloons, and even pajama sets. Hell, there were even assembled gift baskets filled with edible goodies and even some coloring pages.

All Mal wanted was a damn card. And Hallmark wasn’t even open this late into the night. 

The cashier, a young lady of about 16, looked straight at him, and offered him a warm smile.

“It’s too damn late for this, isn’t it?” He asked the cashier.

“A bit, but of course, you can never tell when someone’s coming in on an emergency.” She said, “Now, what can I help you with?”

“I just need a get-well card. Nothing too cheesy or sentimental. I’ll write that in myself.”

“All of our greeting cards are over to your left, sir.” She stated, pointing to an array of cards. Mal thanked her and headed towards the selection. 

After searching for about a minute or two, he only found one card that he thought would work. It had a grey background with some lovely flowers, and it read, “God is with you as you recover and get well.” As he opened the inside, he found that it contained the bible passage Isaiah 40:31, some more Christianity-filled hope and a simple get-well message. 

He knew that George might not have particularly liked the message. After all, he wasn’t strictly Roman Catholic. But the message was nice enough and Mal at least thought the card was pretty. And it was too late at night to be thinking about this, so he just went with it.

The card ended up costing only 48 cents, to which Mal responded by paying with a $1 bill and not accepting any change back.

As he left the store, his heart fell heavy once again as he knew that he would have to update Brian on George’s condition. 

At this point, Mal could only count his lucky stars to hope that everything would turn out ok. 


	11. Don't Know Why

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Cancer mention, sexual humor, ICU mention

Mal stood anxiously at the door to John and Paul’s hotel room, holding the card in his hands. He knew that John didn’t know what was going on, and Paul was practically in shambles at this point. He knocked on the door, and John answered in only a bathrobe and his hair in a towel. 

“Mal? It’s damn near midnight!”

“I know. Where’s Paul?”

“In Ringo’s room. I went in earlier to wake up George, but he wasn’t there.”

“I know…”

“Mal? Do you know where he is?”

Mal paused for a second. He couldn’t tell John the truth at this time of night, as no one wanted to be woken up by a pissed off John.

“I think he’s staying with a friend tonight. Just to unwind a bit.”

“George doesn’t have any friends. What are ya on about?”

“I meant a friend of Brian’s. He’s in town for the week and agreed to let George rest at his place tonight, to get away from the hustle and bustle.”

“Really now? I didn’t think Brian gave a shit.”

“You and me both, lad. Anyways, I need you to sign this card. It’s for a friend of mine, just found out she has cancer.”

John sneered at the religious imagery on the card. He never was very religious, and frankly, now would not be a good time to try it. 

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“Gina, but I mainly call her G. Just easier these days.”

“K. Be a bit.” John said as he slammed the door in Mal’s face.

******************************************************************************

A few minutes later, John returned with the card signed, and Mal foolishly thought to look inside to see what he wrote. 

It said: “Get well soon G. Keep those tits nice and perky for me, eh?”

Go fucking figure. 

He went back to the room he shared with Brian and slammed open the door. 

“Count your fucking blessings, Eppy. He ain’t dead yet but could be at any moment.”

“Wait, what? Mal, how long were you there?”

A pause.

“Enough to see him in the ICU…” 

“How was he?”

“...Not good, Bri. They say he’s running a nasty fever.”

“How’s his breathing?”

“Not good either. Rough, pretty wheezy, almost like there’s some serious shit in there.”

Brian leaned over in his chair, and began to sob quietly.

“But they’re also saying that he can’t stay in the ICU forever. They might move him tomorrow if it doesn’t get worse. In his state, he really can’t be around other deathly ill people. I had a feeling he might have been immunocompromised, stress does that to you, but damn it.”

“We fucked up, Mal.” Brian whispered. 

“No, Bri. YOU fucked up.”

Mal moved over to the dressers and pulled out a pair of pajama pants. 

“I’m going to bed. Think about today. Think about it clearly.”

As Mal moved to the bathroom to change, Brian just began crying harder. 


	12. Maybe If We’re All Together, It’ll Hurt Less

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Flashback

A small knock on the door woke up John from a meaningless dream about tangerine trees and marmalade skies. He stumbled out of bed in frustration, muttering about how maybe those oranges left out in the lobby weren’t the best thing to eat before dozing off while waiting for Mal. 

To his surprise, the knock on the door wasn’t from Mal wanting everyone to sign a card for a cancer-stricken friend or even a Jehovah's Witness.

It was Paul. And he looked like he’d just seen a ghost. 

“...Macca?”

“John…”

“The fuck are ya doing, mate? It’s nearly 2am.”

“I can’t sleep.”

Paul was shaking like a leaf in a windstorm, and he had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. John couldn’t tell if it was a maroon blanket, but it gave Paul a sense of security nonetheless.

“I was with Ringo tonight, and, since I figured he wouldn’t want to be by himself right now…”

“I get it. Hazza’s disappeared outta thin air. I wouldn't want to be alone either.”

Paul felt himself hesitate. It was too late at night to ever tell John the truth about the past few hours. 

“I mean, Mal told me that Hazza went to stay with one of Eppy’s friends, but you can never really trust people these days, am I right?” John muttered.

“Yeah…” Paul weakly replied, before getting back to his point. “You wouldn’t mind me staying in your room tonight, would you?”

“Your bed’s open, Macca. Take it.”

******************************************************************************

John couldn’t get back to sleep. All he heard was the rustling of Paul’s sheets, and it was kinda beginning to bother him. 

Paul just couldn’t sleep. Whenever he closed his eyes, the only thing he saw was George slowly collapsing and losing all of his will to keep going. He saw George’s brown eyes grow colder and sadder. And those last words rang desperately in his mind.

_ “Paul, I’m sorry…”  _

He knew that George had nothing to apologize for, yet he felt like such a damn inconvenience to Paul. 

At some point, Paul just sat up for a bit with a defeated look on his face. There were too many emotions and too many things he could have said. But none of them could be said. It was too late for that. But he said them anyway.

“Don’t apologize. There’s no need to.”

“The hell are ya talking about?” John spat out. 

“Nothing, Johnny. Just… talking to myself I guess…” 

John paused. He realized he might not be able to ever cheer Paul up, but he would at least try to assuage the pain a little bit.

“Hey Macca? Why don’t you cuddle me tonight?” 

“What? Why?”

“Just thought it might help. Ya know?”

Paul reluctantly crawled into John’s bed. Normally, Paul would have confided in John about what was troubling him. But with this, he felt he couldn’t. So it shocked him when John knew something was bothering him tonight and had offered a place to just feel his emotions with no judgement. 

“Come on. I’m in a cuddling mood for once, Macca. Get a bit closer.”

Paul scooched himself into John’s embrace, settling to rest his head on John’s chest. It was nice, he thought. It was warm, but it was a gentle warmth. Not one that scared him out of his wits.

“Macs? I have an idea.” John whispered. “Before you close your eyes, think of something that makes you happy. Y’know, that isn’t your mum or George.”

“Jane…”

“Sure. Think about Jane. Think about how much you want to be in her embrace.”

Paul let all of those romantic thoughts fill his head, and as he closed his eyes, he felt serene and at peace, and thought he could possibly sleep tonight. 

******************************************************************************

The door creaked open at about 3am. John cracked an eye open to see Ringo standing above the bed. 

“Ya know, John. I’m fairly stressed tonight. Can’t pinpoint why.”

“Well, I’ve got Paul on this side of me. If ya wanna hug me from the back like a koala, you can.”

Ringo took the offer and wrapped himself around John’s back, going almost full koala mode. 

“Oh. And to relax your mind, try and think about how you want to be in Maureen’s embrace.”

“And how much I miss Zak…”

“That too. Whatever eases your mind.” 

Within seconds, Ringo was asleep and dreaming peacefully of when he would reunite with his wife and son. 

******************************************************************************

Brian finally came into the room at about 3am to check on the boys. Upon finding them in a cuddle pile, he pulled out a camera and snipped a quick pic. 

He wasn’t sure if it was a photo that he wanted the public to see, especially with the current circumstances, but he knew that he would treasure it until his final days. 

And then he grew sad again when he noticed a small detail. 

“This would be better with George…” 


	13. Battle Plan

A group of young girls gathered in the bedroom of a rather expensive penthouse. The room itself was decorated like that of an average teenager’s, with the walls filled with posters and photos of the fab 4, and a record player was playing  _ Beatles for Sale _ . The girls were all roughly young, no longer teenagers, but still not too experienced in adulthood. To any onlookers, it looked like an average sleepover.

However, this was no sleepover. This was a peculiar meeting for the official New York City chapter of the Beatles Fan Club. Normally, a meeting wouldn’t be called at 2am. However, everyone had too many feelings to vocalize about the recent concert. 

Overall, it was a giddy meeting, yet it was easily composed and manageable. 

However, at precisely 2:36am, the door to the room was kicked open, and Lucy stood in the door frame. 

“Y’ALL. HOLY FUCK. GUESS WHO SHOWED UP AT MY WORK?”

Everyone stared into the door frame.

“You’re late, Lucy. Just sit down.” The club president said. 

Lucy sat down, and continued on her rant.

“Ok, ok. That’s why I’m the vice president, ya dingbat. Anyways… guess who showed up at my work?”

“Let me guess, the president of France?” The treasurer snarkily replied.

“Don’t they still use guillotines?” The club secretary pondered.

“I don’t even know. Anyways, anyways, anyways…”

“Lucy, just tell us already!”

“Ok, ok. Just… promise not to flip your shit.”

“We promise.” The club president said, crossing her heart.

“George.”

“...Harrison?”

“Yep. I’m the main doctor on his case while he’s at the hospital.”

“WHAT THE SHIT????” 

“Oh, my God…”

“I kinda wish I was joking.”

“Wait, Lucy. How did he end up at the hospital? He seemed ok, didn’t he?”

“His lips were kinda blue. That’s not a sign of good health.”

“He was fine on stage, though! He played amazingly!”

“That’s Hazza for ya, though. Epstein told me that he masks a lot of his struggles.”

“YOU MET BRIAN EPSTEIN???” 

“Kinda had to. To be honest, he’s kinda fucking stupid. Didn’t even notice when Geo collapsed backstage.”

The room fell silent for a solid 60 seconds. 

“What do you mean, collapsed?”

“Y’all want my version of the story?”

They all gathered around Lucy.

“Well, he came into my work, right? On a stretcher, of fucking course, with 2 other paramedics. He’s white as a sheet, but his lips and fingertips were bright fucking blue. I took one look and started internally panicking, but then someone told me that there was mail for me, and lo-and-behold, it was the letter from George!”

She paused to show everyone the letter she received, and passed it to the club president.

“So, anyways, I have the letter from him in one hand, and my med kit in the other. Now, when he got there, he had a 103.7 fever, but when I returned, it was 103.9, and he also wasn’t fucking breathing, but no one thought to do CPR because his heart rate was waay high. Eventually, we got him over to the ICU and started working on him. FINALLY, at 2am, we got his fever down to about 101 and transferred him to a general room to recover from the sleep deprivation.”

“How did you get his fever down if he wasn’t able to take pills?”

“Intravenous ibuprofen.”

“Wait. What?”

“Yeah, I don't know why we didn’t think of it earlier.”

Again, the room fell silent. After a few seconds, the club secretary began to cry a fair bit and wrapped her arms around Lucy. 

“What the fuck do you mean Brian didn’t know that George was sick?”

“He seemed shocked when I told him that George was going to the ICU.”

“I think he knew. Now the question is, ‘did he care’?”

“It seemed so. He was just clueless.”

“Was anyone listening to the press conference earlier? Apparently, Brian came late to the interview and said that George was sleeping at the hotel.” One club member piped up.

“Well, now we all know that that’s not the fucking truth. Imagine if they really found out about all of this.” Lucy snipped.

“Imagine having the AUDACITY to lie like that.” The club treasurer ranted. “Like, what in the actual name of our Lord and Saviour Jesus H. Christ made him think to do that?”

“Maybe he’s trying to protect the boys?”

They all nodded in agreement. 

“There’s another press conference tomorrow.” The club secretary said. “I’ll be there already.”

“Lucy?” Another member said. “Don’t get any stupid ideas…”

“I’m storming that bitch. And I’m bringing evidence.” Lucy spat out, holding up the letter. “I can’t let Brian get away with lying like this.”

“I can meet with Paul tomorrow. I know what hotel they’ll be at. I’m going to ask him if we as a club can give everyone our condolences.” The club president piped up.

“Condolences make it sound like George is fucking dead. Just say we’re keeping the Beatles and their staff in our thoughts and prayers.” Lucy said matter-of-factly.

“Lucy, don’t fight me on this. Please.”

“FINE. As long as y’all agree to storm the press conference tomorrow.”

“This afternoon. It’s already 3am.”

“Really? Oh, fuck.”

“Did you make a note about those 2 actions?”

“Yep.” The club secretary muttered.

“Good. I now adjourn this meeting. Lucy, meet me at the Plaza hotel at roughly 9am.”

“Sure thing. Also, if you have a concerning letter from George, bring it to the press conference this afternoon. And be prepared to read from them.”

As Lucy walked out of the penthouse, she had a feeling of accomplishment. Almost like she knew that the world would be shocked. She walked the streets of NYC with the biggest grin across her face. 


	14. Permission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mentions of hospital setting and illness

A gentle knocking could be heard on the door to the hotel room. Paul slightly groaned and wiggled himself free from John’s grip, sliding onto the carpet below. As he gained his footing, as well as his cozy pink slippers, he rubbed his tired brown eyes and stretched upwards.

The door was knocked on again, but a tad bit louder this time. Paul walked towards it and opened it. In front of the door stood a 20-something woman in a pantsuit and high heels.

“Hi, is this the hotel room of Mr. James Paul McCartney?”

“I go by Paul, madam. Anyways, what seems to be happening?”

“Oh, good morning Paul. I was hoping we could talk for a few minutes. You see, I work for the local newspaper, and I was wanting to talk to you for a bit. Maybe over a cup of coffee in the lobby?”

“Sure thing, ma’am. I just…” He looked at himself for a second and realized that he was still in his pajamas. “...I just need to get dressed, but after that, I’m all yours.”

“Take all the time you need, Mr. Paul. I’ll be waiting here.”

“I shouldn’t be too long.” Paul replied before shutting the door.

******************************************************************************

Roughly 20 minutes later, the two were in the hotel lobby, each in pantsuits and with cups of coffee, but Paul’s having just a tad more sugar than the paper lady’s.

She took a sip of her coffee and looked him dead in the eye.

“Let’s be honest here, Mr. McCartney. I saw the press conference last night. So, I also saw your reaction that Mr. Harrison was just sleeping at the hotel. You obviously know more than I do. What’s the truth?”

He put down his coffee cup and cleared his throat.

“You want honesty? I’ll give you honesty. He wasn’t sleeping at the hotel. He got sent to the hospital last night.”

She spat out a mouthful of coffee in shock. 

“...I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. He went to the hospital last night. Poor fella ain’t doing so hot, and it was starting to show its true colors yesterday. I hope he’s doing ok, though. I heard Brian and Mal clamoring about it last night.”

“I hope so too. What do you think caused all of it?”

“He hadn’t slept in 5 days, he hadn’t eaten in 3 whole weeks, and he had been sick with what seemed like a mild cold for like 6 or so days. Someone sneezed in his face when he left Liverpool.”

“Fucking yikes.”

“I know. I’m not too pissed at whoever sneezed in his face, but more so that he seemed so overworked and even maybe disappointed in himself.”

“Ah. Why that take on things, the whole being disappointed thing?”

“To be honest with ya, I’m not really sure. He’s told me before that he feels disposable in the band. And with how often John was getting cross with him for minor shit, I could see that route too.” 

“Do you think John would ever replace him?”

Paul paused for a second, and then returned to his coffee.

“He’d have to kill me first. George is like my kid brother. We might not actually be related, but I’d fight for him any damn day.”

“Well, then. Anyways, I’d like to know if I can send the band and all of your staff my condolences for this whole incident. You know, as a sign of respect.”

“I have no problems with it. I’m sure Ringo would benefit from it too.”

The paper lady soon left, and Paul continued with his coffee.

******************************************************************************

Lucy stood at the end of the crosswalk, waving to the paper lady. She walked closer to the nurse, and they chatted for a bit.

“Were you able to put them in the paper?” Lucy asked.

“Yep. Do you know who all is coming with you?”

“Oh, not all of them, but I know that people will want to speak out.”

“Good. If we can at least get people to speak out, he can be put in his place.”


	15. Maybe If Honesty Was Applied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mentions of hospitals, possible near-death, public arguing

“Now how in the hell did this get in there?” Mal pondered as Ringo came to their table in the lobby.

“What are you reading, Mal?”

“The papers, come look at this, Rings. It’s absolute horseshit, what they put in ‘em.”

Ringo edged close to Mal to take a closer look at the paper. It showed the average news of the day, weather reports, the like. However, something stuck out like a sore thumb. It was a condolence bit.

“Hey, Mal. Did you read the condolences?”

“...No. Not yet.”

At that point, Paul had walked over to Mal with a cup of coffee in his hands. 

“Oh, the paper finally came in?” Paul asked.

“Yeah, but can you believe what this says?” Mal said.

“Well, what does it say?”

Mal cleared his throat and adjusted the paper.

“The Official New York City Chapter of the Beatles Fan Club would like to offer their condolences to the members of the Beatles as well as their staff… for tHE HOSPITALIZATION OF GEORGE HARRISON?!” The anger and shock in Mal’s voice rose with almost every syllable that escaped his lips. 

“WHO FUCKING SNITCHED?!”

“A paper lady offered to get me some coffee. It’s mainly her, though. I had no idea she was with the fanclub… had I known-”

Mal wrapped a sympathetic arm around Paul’s shoulders.

“I get it, Macca. You’re hit hardest by this whole fiasco and obviously needed someone else to talk to about it. There’s no possible way for me to ever be mad at you about this.”

Paul looked confused for a second, but went straight back to drinking his coffee. 

However, Brian came downstairs not too long later, and the fireworks started all over again. 

“What the FUCK, Brian?”

“...Good morning to you too, Mal.”

“Don’t fucking “Good morning” me! Look at this!” Mal yelled, shoving the condolences in Eppy’s face. “Now everyone and their culinary inept mothers will know that you’re a fucking liar! What was so hard about telling the fucking truth?”

Brian paused. 

“I never sent that in to the papers.”

“I know! It was Paul who told someone! And that someone just happened to be a part of a fucking fan club!”

“Wait what? There’s a fan club in NYC?”

“Brian. Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning? Or have you always been this fucking stupid?”

“I’ll admit, Mal. I’m a bit frazzled from all the chaos of last night.”

“YOU’RE FRAZZLED?” Ringo piped in. “GEORGE FUCKING COLLAPSED IN FRONT OF PAUL AND YOU WERE ON THE GOD DAMN PHONE THE WHOLE TIME!”

“Not you too, Ringo. Please, not today of all days.”

This whole argument caused stares from random hotel guests and staff, who quickly decided that the whole drama was none of their fucking business and continued on with their morning activities. In the midst, John shuffled downstairs, still in his pajamas and barely even half-awake.

“Right. What’s all this then?” John sleepily pondered.

And right there, the heated argument stopped dead in its tracks.

“Oh, good morning, John. Came down for a bit of brekkie?”

“Maybe. I just wanna know what the bloody time is.”

“Like 10am. Maybe even 11 if we’re really specific.” Paul responded.

“Right on. I’m getting some breakfast and heading back upstairs. Pray that I don’t fall back asleep with a muffin in my mouth.”

“Oh, we’re praying all right.”

With that sentiment, John headed to grab some continental breakfast. Everyone else bit their tongues as long as they could. As soon as John was headed back upstairs, however, chaos ensued once again.

“Mother of fuck, Brian. Get your head out of your ass before your ass decapitates you.” Mal sighed angrily. 

“Look. I don't know how you want me to do this.”

“There’s another press conference today. At noon.”

Paul went back upstairs to freshen up. 

“Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have to be at the hospital. If he wakes up and has no one there for him, I’m going to be pissed. And if I find out that he had died last night, so help me Epstein, I will wad up this newspaper in the most painful way possible and SHOVE IT UP YOUR ASS.” 

On that note, Mal stormed off. Brian and Ringo stood awkwardly in the lobby.

“What the hell am I going to do now, Ringo?”

“I don’t know. Maybe tell the truth?”

A defeated sigh.

“What choice do I have?”


	16. All Is Finally Revealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: kidnapping mention, managerial incompetence, self-degradation, mention of familial death, mentions of poor sleeping habits, illness, mentions of poor eating habits, possible violation of the oath of Hippocrates, hospital mention, CPR mention

Noon couldn’t come soon enough for Brian and the other boys. Everyone was anxious and unsure of what the press conference would bring, nor would they know if anyone would actually keep their promises. 

As everyone took their places for the conference, the press noticed something peculiar.

George wasn’t with the group. 

This caused a flurry of questions and an unrelenting frenzy from all of the fans that walked past the scene.

“Where is Mr. Harrison?”

“You said he would show up after a night’s rest.”

“It's obvious that you’re hiding something, Mr. Epstein! What are you hiding?”

“Mr. Epstein! Was Mr. Harrison kidnapped?”

“He wouldn’t just vanish like this!”

“Who paid to kidnap George Harrison?”

“Have you even received a ransom note?”

Brian took his seat, angrily rubbing his temples with his hands in frustration. He wondered where they even got the idea that George had been kidnapped. He had to come up with something, and he had to do so fast.

“We’re not taking questions at this time. Please wait for everyone to take their seats.” He said clearly.

“Mr. Epstein?”

“Mr. Epstein!”

“What are you hiding?”

At long last, Ringo had taken his seat next to Paul, who knew what Brian was doing, and he wasn’t happy about it.

“Rings. If I hear one white lie come out of his mouth, I will have officially fucking had it.”

Ringo nodded in agreement. 

With that, Brian took the cue to answer questions.

******************************************************************************

Just outside of the conference, Lucy and a group of concerned teenagers from the area gathered, and seemed to go over the game plan. 

“10 minutes in, we go in. Agreed?”

Everyone nodded.

******************************************************************************

After 9 minutes of questioning, it became clear to everyone that Brian was not letting up on his story of George just sleeping in the hotel.

“Mr. Epstein, I’m worried that you’re not being honest with us. Where is George?”

“Like I said, he’s at the hotel, still resting. He was fairly exhausted, so it will take some time to get him back in performance shape. Can we talk about something else now?” He spat out anxiously.

“Sounds like a crock of horseshit.” A reporter muttered under her breath. She, like the others, had no idea where George actually was, but there was no way he was still asleep in the hotel.

Brian’s answer only made the press angrier, and a flurry of questions came in and buried the boys.

“Did they have anything to do with George’s disappearance?”

“Please do not bring the boys into this.”

“We heard a theory that John had been wanting to kick George out of the band. Is this true?”

“I may have joked about it, but sadly, I care about him too much.” John retorted. 

In no time, the click-clack of crimson high heels could be heard and distinguished from the crowd of paparazzi. A young lady took the stand, angrily motioning to borrow someone’s microphone. They obliged, and she held the microphone tight in her right hand while also holding a letter in her left hand. In no time, the room fell silent. 

“Well. It appears you have a question from a fan. Miss, if you would like to step forward so that Mr. Epstein and the boys can hear you better.”

She stepped in front of everyone, and her milk chocolate brown eyes pierced straight into Brian’s soul.

“Mr. Epstein.”

He turned his head to look at the crowd, and immediately began to tug at his shirt collar. 

“Mr. Epstein? Are you going to be honest about where George Harrison actually is? Or am I going to have to tell everyone here myself and possibly ruin your poor little reputation?”

Lucy. 

“Dr. Lucy! How did you-”

“Cut the bullshit, Epstein. Now, we can tell everyone the easy way, in that you tell everyone the truth right now, or we do this the hard way, in that all of my little friends help me expose the truth and possibly you for hiding it from everyone.”

Brian grew more anxious. His mouth dried up and his face grew red, resembling more of a fresh tomato than a face. 

“So. The hard way then. I see how you like to play. Well, in that case…” 

A posse of young girls all lined up and formed a semi-circle around Lucy. 

“...say hello to my friends. They all came from different parts of the state of New York, and one of them even from Vermont to help me.”

“Holy shit, Vermont.” Ringo muttered under his breath. 

“I- I- Mrs…”

“Dr. We’ve been over this, Brian.”

“Yes, right. But-”

“All right, who’s first?”

An average height woman of no more than 26 stepped up and read her letter.

_ “October 25, 1965. Dear Jenny, I appreciate your writing to me, and I’m glad that you appreciate my guitar skills. Unfortunately, these skills only come with much practice. I learned the hard way, having taught myself at 13. If I had given up, you might not even know my name. My advice to you: keep practicing. And if you ever feel too dumb to pick up this skill, you’re really not. Even today, I struggle with my personal sense of intelligence. Others have told me that I have some, but in my personal opinion, I have none. But that never stopped me in my passion. Just keep trucking on, aight? Sincerely, George Harrison. 2:14am." _

“That wasn’t so bad.” John said to himself.

“He never told me that he felt stupid. Poor guy…” Paul realized. 

Another young woman, 26, tall, and skinny (much like George), stepped forward. 

_ “October 28, 1965. Dear Alison, my sincere condolences to your family, and I hope that your brother is resting easy. And I truly wish that I could give you a suggestion of a song to do for your event, but you have all of the creativity here, not me. I bet you’ll come up with something. Trust me. It’ll be better if it’s you that comes up with the end result all on your own. However, my only suggestion is to always have your instruments tuned and always ready to go! And make sure to get a decent amount of sleep! Don’t be like me and stay awake for 3 whole days! That’s just me, though. Have fun and be happy! Sincerely, George Harrison, 6:30am.” _

“I also received this letter with traces of cigarette ashes and what looks like blood on the corner of the paper.” She stated, holding up the paper to reveal a blood stain on the bottom right corner. 

“Damn.” Ringo said. “3 whole days.”

“Isn’t that a bad thing?”

“I mean, I told him to spend more time working, but of course he has to take me literally.” John said unknowingly.

“What the fuck, John?” Paul exclaimed. “And are we really going to ignore the blood?”

“Oh my fucking God.” Ringo almost shouted in disbelief. 

Another woman came forward. She was shorter than the other women, and looked no older than about 19 or 20. 

_ “October 29, 1965. Dear Lauren, I appreciate you reaching out to me for romantic advice. If I can be honest, just be frank and tell him how you feel. It doesn’t hurt to sweeten the message with some flowers either. May I suggest a nice bouquet of chrysanthemums? It may help that they symbolize optimism and joy. So if he ends up saying yes, maybe you can thank the flowers. Why did I go off about flowers? Maybe the jet lag’s finally hitting me. Anyways, it won’t help matters if you bottle your feelings up and don’t tell anyone. By then, you’ll have created a mess that’s impossible to get out of. So, in simple terms. Just be honest. Sincerely, George Harrison, 12:16am.” _

“Like others,” she clarified, “there’s a coffee stain in the corner, and what looks like… blood?”

“Wow. The fact that he mentioned bottling up emotions and the damage that can cause…” Ringo said angrily as he turned his head towards John. “And you often yelled at him for being “emotional”, didn’t you?” 

“I was only being honest, wasn’t I?”

Lucy stepped forward, and carefully unfolded her letter. She cleared her throat a bit, and began on. 

_ “ October 30, 1965. Dear Lucy, I appreciate your writing to me and your curiosity in guitars. Currently, on our tour of the wonderful United States of America, I am using both a 1963 Gretsch Tennessean hollow body electric guitar and a 1963 Rickenbacker 360/12 thin line electric guitar. I also have a 1963 Gretsch Country Gentleman hollow body electric guitar that I use as a backup, just in case something were to happen with any of my other 2. As you can tell, I am quite a fan of Gretsch guitars, though Rickenbacker guitars are a close second amongst my ranking. As for my current personal well-being, I am not doing too well. I have not slept in roughly 5 days (I will have to re-check with that), and have not consumed anything since coffee for the past 7, as coffee is the only thing that I have been able to consume without becoming violently ill. Please keep in mind that the only reason that I am being honest with you is because hopefully you have some amount of a medical background and can help me figure out why I have been ill for 3 weeks. Unfortunately, if you prescribe rest, I will not be able to go forward with that, as the demand for American performances has skyrocketed, and we have had to book a second tour. With such a high fan demand also comes a high demand from management and the other band mates. And with such demands comes a certain amount of stress, as is normal in this industry. I feel as though the happiness of my fans and the happiness of our band should be a top priority and that sacrifices should be made. And, as a result, those sacrifices have been made, and I hope that they pay off. Anyways, my apologies for burdening you with this. You simply wanted 2 questions answered, and I dumped a new load about my personal life. Again, my apologies, and I hope to see you at the concert tonight in New York. Sincerely, George Harrison, 3:39am.” _

Everyone was taken quite aback. While the other letters only suggested a tired, loopiness while writing this letter showed pure desperation for help and/or even a sympathetic listening ear. Nobody had any way to reply, as it would feel insensitive.

As Lucy stepped back, she hoisted a small child who was only 6 years old into her arms as she read her letter with Lucy’s assistance.

_ “October 30, 1965. Dear Helen, I’m doing… ok, I guess. I’m barely surviving today, but that’s most likely just a grown-up thing. Anyways, my favorite color is purple and I love cats. My fiance has a white cat named Korky back at home and I miss her very much. I hope to get married next year, though I don’t want it to be too known. So, it will likely be smaller. Some friends, but not everyone. And my wife will dress up a bit, but she won’t wear a wedding gown, though they are quite pretty. Well, I might try and go to sleep now. Have a happy Halloween! From, George Harrison, 7:30am.” _

Lucy carefully set the tiny child down and she ran back to an older woman who seemed to be her mother. She then turned back to Brian with a cold stare and held the microphone.

“So. You knew he wasn’t entirely ok. And you still allowed him to perform?”

“I took hi-”

Without warning, Paul stood up and began to recount his memories of last night.

“I saw him. You were right, Lucy. He wasn’t well. He was blue in the lips and fingertips, but red in his face. I knew he was running a fever. He just looked warm, so I tried to get him back to his dressing room. We walked a bit and he was… lagging. I, I told him we were almost there, to just hold on and stay strong. He couldn’t, though…”

Paul began shuddering, and tears welled up in his eyes. 

“The last thing he said to me was an apology, but I didn’t know what he was apologizing for. The next thing I knew… he fell. He was laid down on his face. I didn’t think to call his name, but I turned him over, and everything that was blue was more blue now. I couldn’t help him, and I couldn’t help myself. So, I started screaming. And Mal and Ringo showed up, then left to get Brian, and the rest of it was a blur, but I saw his ribs, I might have done CPR, I can’t remember, and they stuck out so much. But the next thing I coherently remember is John wrapping his arms around me.”

John sat taken aback. He had no idea that all that had happened right outside his dressing room. Suddenly, the shock blanket made more sense. He gently took Paul’s hand and sat him down, handing him his handkerchief for the tears. 

“He later ended up in my care. So, for anyone curious, Mr. George Harrison is currently admitted to St. Mary’s Hospital for respiratory issues and a fever. There, Mr. Epstein. Just aired it all out for you.” She said quite bluntly, turning to the press.

“Do what you want with this information. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to work now.” She said matter-of-factly as she left. 

The room was silent for a bit, and then a voice piped up.

“Excuse me? My name is Adrienne, and I’m from Brooklyn. My question is for Paul McCartney.”

“Go ahead.” Brian said nonchalantly. 

“Are you ok, honey?”

“Not really, but I appreciate the sentiment. It’s rough. I just want George to be ok…”

“Alright.”

“I’ll end things on this note.” Brian said. “I last saw him before midnight, so hopefully, he’s doing ok.”

******************************************************************************

Some time had passed, and the boys were getting ready to head to St. Mary’s. On the way to the car, Paul was pulled aside by Adrienne and hugged pretty tightly. Paul’s only response was to hug her back.

“Remember to take care of yourself, Paulie. Get enough sleep, eat some proper food, the works.”

“I’ll take that into consideration, Adrienne. Thank you.”

“Paul! Quit fucking around! We have to go!”

She let go, and Paul ran towards the group. 

“Write to me, Paulie dear!”

“I’ll consider it!”

The car drove off, and Adrienne hoped only for the best. 


	17. Brief and Scary Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Hospital setting, seizure mention, weight talk, managerial incompetence, illness, John being an asshole, near physical fight, blood, cancer mention, predictions of the deaths of major characters

“YOU FUCKING LIED TO ME?!”

“John, you don’t understand. Ringo was scared that you were going to be mad.”

“OH I’M FUCKING MAD, ALRIGHT! NOBODY THOUGHT TO TELL ME ABOUT THIS?!”

“John…”

As the doors of the waiting room of St. Mary’s Hospital opened, everyone turned their heads towards the argument that was occurring. 

For some reason, it didn’t entirely click to them that these were the remaining 3 Beatles and their frazzled manager, and they all went back to doing whatever they were doing. 

As Brian walked towards the front window, Paul took a seat by the doors of the main halls, and grabbed a juicy gossip and fashion magazine. Normally, he wouldn’t be reading this sort of thing, but he had nothing else to block his mind out with. John sat beside him, still furious and fuming over the realization that he had been lied to. Ringo sat to the left of Paul, waiting for Brian to finish checking the boys in. 

“And, I just would like to confirm, I may not have heard it right, which patient are you here to visit?” The young lady asked.

“George Harrison.”

She stopped dead in her tracks.

“You mean… the Beatle?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She stared at him in surprise.

“Well, when did HE show up?”

“Last night.”

She flipped through her records book and immediately found the name.

“Ah, him. Yes. Well, sir, he’s still asleep from what someone told me. You’ll have to wait a bit with the other boys.”

“That’s no problem.”

As he went to sit down, the doors swung open and revealed a young nurse with blond hair and two differently colored eyes. 

“Mr. Epstein? Hi, I’m Anna. There’s a Mr. Evans who wants to see you. Something occurred and we’d like to ask you some questions.”

He sat shocked, but immediately rose to his feet and turned to the boys.

“Just… stay put, ok? Don’t cause any trouble.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Eppy. We’ll behave.” Paul said indifferently.

As Brian walked away, John looked at Ringo with eyes that read, “Let’s wreak some havoc in this place.”

******************************************************************************

As he walked back, the first thing he heard was, 

“BRIAN SAMUEL EPSTEIN! WE NEED TO FUCKING TALK!”

Oh, dear, he thought. What’s Mal pissed about this time? He walked closer to Mal and found him talking to another nurse, this one holding a clipboard and a pen. 

“Now, miss, I hope you understand. Mr. Harrison has no history of seizures,” he said calmly. Yet, as Brian drew closer, Mal turned his head towards him and finished his sentence in a more hostile manner. 

“... HAS HE?”

“What? Mal, what’s going on?”

Mal drew himself inwards, took a deep breath, and started lamenting.

“I got myself a cup of coffee at like 11:30am. I was only gone a few minutes, but Darlene was there. As soon as I got back, George was just… he… I saw him…”

“Mr. Epstein,” Anna interjected. “Mr. Harrison had a seizure.”

He stood confused and scared for what felt like an hour.

“But, we were able to pinpoint the trigger as a temperature spike to around 104 degrees. The fever is under control now, but we just have to be a bit more cautious in the future.”

“Wait, what?”

“I had to call for someone, and Darlene just happened to be close by.”

“However, she’s only an intern here, and normally, interns aren’t allowed to step into emergencies without their main doctor’s supervision, well at least here, anyways. We don’t get many interns, so we have to keep a close eye on them.” Anna explained. 

Just then, a petite red-headed nurse walked by and began talking to Anna.

“So, I got moved to Dr. Lucy. My old supervisor just got fired.”

“OK, Darlene. Wait, did you say Dr. Lucy?”

“Yep. She heard about it and is letting me go home early. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Aight. See ya tomorrow.”

“See ya.”

“Hey, Ms. Darlene?” Brian asked. “Thank you.”

She quickly nodded and headed out. 

“What a nice gal.”

“Yep.”

Mal’s eyes quickly widened.

“BRIAN!? DID YOU LEAVE THE BOYS ALONE?!”

******************************************************************************

Surprisingly, the room was not in complete and utter disarray. Instead, it seemed normal and peaceful, aside from Paul hiding under a chair and Ringo’s belt around John’s neck, but not enough to fatally choke him.

“...what the fuck?”

“It’s not what it looks like, Bri. Ringo and I were just…”

“Testing the leather.”

Brian blinked in surprise, and then brushed it off. 

“Ok, do y’all want to go back and see George?” 

*****************************************************************************

It didn’t seem right to Paul, seeing him in this state. He knew him to be at least somewhat lively and energetic. Hell, even when he slept, he still had a bit of color in his face. 

But he was sleeping now, and he looked absolutely horrid. He was just so pale and thin and… sickly looking. He couldn't bear to think about what was happening that caused him to be so ill.

“No… Geo..” Paul whispered to himself. 

The boys stood crowded by the door, neither one wanting to take the first steps inside. For Paul and Ringo, it was painful. For John, it was just awkward. Yes, he cared about George, but he obviously wasn’t as close to him as Paul was.

In reality, they couldn’t go in even if they wanted to, as Lucy and Anna were in the room doing some quick vital examinations. 

“Hey, Lucy? He doesn't have a weight recorded.”

“Kinda hard to do that when he’s not awake, Anna. But, I get why you’re concerned. Those pajamas do seem loose on him.”

“Yeah, do you want me to get a size down?”

“Let me check first.”

The boys turned away, not wanting to impede too much. However, they clearly heard the next part of the conversation.

“Holy shit, Luce. Look at this.”

“Yikes. A size down might not even cut it, but we can’t know right now. So yeah, grab a size down.”

“For the records, should we estimate?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll put down 120.”

“Nah, that’s stretching it. 110 is a more accurate estimate.”

“Ok. That’s so sad, though.”

They walked out, and Lucy turned towards the boys.

“Just give me like 5 more minutes, k?”

They nodded in unison.

5 minutes passed, and Anna exited with the larger pair of pajamas in hand.

“Ok, boys. You can go ahead.”

Paul took the first steps in the room, and Ringo followed close behind. Paul sat with his chin on the right side of the bed with a sad look in his eyes. Ringo ran his fingers through Paul’s hair in sympathy, but couldn’t help but stare at George as he slept, and he couldn’t escape the tear that ran down his face. He was so scared for his best friend. But John had some choice words about the whole matter.

“I’ve hated your looks since the start…” He mumbled under his breath.

“Seriously, John? Yeah, he looks like shit, but come on. He probably feels worse than he looks. Can you bother to have some basic fucking decency?” Paul grumbled back. 

“Well, excuse me, Macca. He wasn’t worth much to us anyways. Hell, if you gave him a penny for his song ideas, you’d get change back.”

“His ideas aren’t that bad, Lens. To be fair, I feel bad not giving him a chance..”

“Don’t. He’d taint our band with his schlop.”

“John,” Ringo whispered, “that’s enough. Stop it, please.”

“Heh.” John scoffed. “Man alive, but I wish he wasn’t. What a shame…”

At this point, the room suddenly turned into a Renaissance painting. Paul had a shoe in his left hand, and was ready to beat the shit out of John with it, and John just stood and smirked smugly, the two only separated by Ringo. 

“Stop it! Just stop! Honestly, can we not have one minute of peace? John,” he said as the two fell to separate sides, “Apologize to Paul.”

“Fuck no. I meant everything I said. It’s true and you know it. What are ya gonna do, cry about it?”

Ringo had to compose himself.

“The only useful thing George ever did was take that punch for you in ‘63.” John said confidently.

Paul looked back over at George as he put his shoe back on. He couldn’t help but feel bad.

“I’m so sorry, Geo… sorry that it got to this.”

“Paul…” Ringo said comfortingly, “you don’t need to apologize. This whole scenario isn’t your fault. John, step outside.”

“You’re not my fucking boss.”

“I’m the oldest in this goddamn band. And as long as Brian and Mal are out, what I say fucking goes. Now get out.”

John huffed angrily and walked out. Ringo and Paul just stared in bewilderment. 

“How childish and immature of him.”

“Yeah… sick of it.”

A small groan was heard. Paul looked over and saw George’s eyelids fluttering.

“George?”

He rushed back over to the bed, and Ringo stood in surprise. Paul slowly placed his hand under George’s head to support him. 

“George! Hey, right here. You’ll be ok. I promise.”

George’s eyes slowly opened, and he looked around in confusion.

“Paul?” he whispered, his voice hoarse and his throat horribly sore. 

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m… just so glad you’re alive! I thought I lost you!” Paul cried while hugging him. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit.”

“I figured as much.”

“My head hurts a bit.”

“You had a seizure while you were unconscious. Gave Mal quite a scare.”

“Where is everyone?”

Paul looked around in the room. It was just him, George, and Ringo. 

“John got pissy earlier, so Ringo made him leave. And Brian and Mal are talking to the nurses, I think. I’m not sure. But yeah.”

“What even happened?”

Paul paused for a bit, trying to think of how to best describe what unfolded after the concert. But George had every right to be confused, he thought. Well, being in the concert venue one minute and then waking up in the hospital must have been a very disorienting experience. He finally offered to sit George up and explain.

“Well, you passed out in the hallways backstage. It was rough. You weren’t breathing, blue as the sky, it was a fucking mess. I don’t really remember much of that night myself, but I was so scared that I would lose you. Scared me almost as much as when my mum died. You’re ok now, though. You’ll be ok.”

George had that woozy look in his eyes when Paul sat him up, and even though his arm was on his back, giving him support, he was still incredibly dizzy.

And cold. 

He leaned his head backwards to try and assuage the feeling. For some reason, looking at the ceiling instead of looking straight ahead seemed to work wonders. He was still cold, though, and he couldn’t figure out why. 

All of a sudden, John and Brian walked back into the room. Brian was elated at the fact, but he also didn’t know how John would react. 

“Geo! You’re finally awake!”

“Yeah… Hey Eppy.” George mumbled as he focused his head back towards them. He was dizzy again, and he didn’t know if Brian would notice. 

“How do ya feel?”

“...cold. It’s freezing in here, don’t know if ya noticed. But, yeah…”

Brian walked closer to George and sat on the bed.

“Didn’t seem too bad. Maybe I can see if we can get you another blanket?”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Well, if you’re cold, then-”

“Eppy. He’s fucking burning up.” Ringo stated, seemingly out of nowhere. Brian turned around and found Ringo on the right of him, drawing his hand away from George’s forehead. “It’s chills, Hazza.”

George sighed quietly. He knew that this was all outrageous. If it was just a fever, they would have let him go already. Hell, he might not even have been here if it was just that. But then he remembered that Paul mentioned that he had had a seizure this morning. Now that was cause for concern, he thought. He leaned his head forward and held it with his hands.

“It’s really not a big deal.” John said nonchalantly. “I mean, it shouldn’t be, anyways. We’ve all had fevers before. Why is this case any different?”

“He collapsed.”

“So?”

Yikes, Brian thought. This was all going downhill.

All of a sudden, George felt that scratchiness in his throat again. It wasn’t just scratchiness, either. It was… painful, maybe. And it reflected in his face. 

“Hazza? You alright?”

George gave a quick nod, attempting to clear his throat. But that soon turned into a harsh coughing fit.

“George!”

“Are you ok?”

“What’s going on?” Mal yelled from the doorway.

George tried to wave it all off as nothing, but he started coughing again, and it sounded really ugly. His arm started shaking and Paul managed to pull it away. But when he did, he was shocked.

There was blood. 

That probably explained what he found yesterday morning. He had more than likely been coughing up blood for the past few days or so.

Fuck. 

“Someone go get Dr. Lucy.”

Paul volunteered. He bolted from the room and ran down the halls.

“DR. LUCY!”

******************************************************************************

The 3 other boys and the 2 managers sat anxiously in the waiting room. 

“What if it’s cancer?” Paul stammered.

“It’s not. Not yet, anyways. Give it 34 years. And then another 36 before he dies, so don’t worry. He’s got time.” Ringo said.

Everyone looked at him in shock.

“How do you know that?”

“Just do.”

“Hey, Ringo! Can you see my future?” John asked excitedly.

Ringo took one look at John and grew worried.

“Do you want to know?”

“Yes!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!!”

Ringo sighed.

“I’ll just give the year and location. 1980, New York City.”

John was a bit put off, but decided to ignore it.

******************************************************************************

After a few hours of waiting, Lucy summoned Brian, John, Paul, and Ringo to discuss the test results. 

“Wait. Where’s Mr. Evans?” She asked.

“He went back to the hotel to take care of travel arrangements. Why?” Brian stated.

“Well, we got the results of the testing back.”

“Hopefully, it’s not pneumonia.” John said snarkily.


	18. A Scare That Doesn’t Stop Them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: pneumonia, weight talk, mention of poor sleep schedule, stress, John still being an asshole, physical violence, hospital setting

“Mr. Harrison has pneumonia and will have to stay here to recover.”

John slyly smiled and extended his palms towards Paul and Ringo, who each slid him a £10 note.

“Can we see him for a bit?” Paul inquired. 

“Sure. I don’t see why not.”

As John, Paul, and Ringo ran to see George, Brian was stopped by Lucy.

“Not you. You can wait a bit.”

“Why?” Brian asked.

Lucy sighed.

“Mr. Epstein. We have a problem.”

“What’s the problem?”

“We ran some additional tests, because, you know, a mild respiratory virus doesn’t turn into pneumonia overnight. Something had to have happened to trigger such a dramatic increase in severity.”

“What did you find?”

“For one, he’s terribly stressed. I have an understanding of the average work schedule of a Beatle, but my God, Epstein! Not having slept for 5 days! All of that, and an illness? No wonder the poor guy is doing so rough. And another thing. You said he hadn’t eaten in 21 days?”

“He said that, not me. Why?”

“From what I remember, they all said he weighed 142, which, I don’t know why that information would be included in fan cards, but I digress. He’s 121 now.”

“Yeah, I don’t know why they-what? Did you say 121?”

“Yes… meaning that if he lost 21 pounds, and hadn’t eaten in 21 days… he lost a pound a day…” 

“Wait a minute. You’re telling me that he lost a stone and a half in 3 weeks? You’re joking with me!”

“Do you want the charts to verify for yourself?” 

“No, of course not. That might cost you your job. But really?”

“Yeah. I might have overestimated on the charts and said 110, but who can blame me?”

“Shit.” 

“So, long story short, he needs to stay with us here to make sure he gets back into performing shape. And to also give him a well deserved break.” 

“Ok… have you seen Mal anywhere?”

“Mr. Evans?”

“Yeah, him.”

“I think he left. Why?” 

“I need to have a quick chat with him.”

And with that, he left, leaving Lucy without a single clue.

******************************************************************************

George lay in bed with an oxygen mask over his tired and pale face. Paul sat at his bedside, leafing a magazine and ogling over the pretty American models. Ringo sat on the floor with his head at Paul’s hip, counting the ceiling tiles. John took the other chair in the room, staring intently at Paul.

No one wanted to say anything.

No one COULD say anything.

The room was quiet and tense, with only a faint rock-n-roll record playing in the room over, and it stayed like that for quite a while.

Eventually, Paul got sick and tired of the quiet, and he finally spoke up.

“I’m pretty scared for ya, George. I mean, in all of my years of knowing you, I’ve never seen you in a state like this. Sure, you’ve always been thin, but like this? Never! Not even in Hamburg.”

“Ya know, he’s got a point, Georgie.” John piped up. “Look, I know I make crude comments about everyone’s insecurities here, but he’s right. I mean, what am I gonna do without my lead guitarist?”

“Didn’t you want to replace me? Maybe get someone like Brian Jones or whoever else they have on their bands?” George raspily inquired.

“Sure, but that was only a joke.” John stammered. 

“Was it?”

John paused.

“Didn’t think so.” George replied as he tried to sit himself up.

“Woah, there. Don’t strain yourself.” Paul said as he laid the lead guitarist back down. “That’s how you got here, remember?”

George laid his arms over his torso, kinda forgetting that he was hooked up to an IV.

“It was, yeah. Maybe, I’m not too sure. I don’t remember that night.” 

“Of course you don’t.” Ringo replied. “Shouldn’t you get back to sleep now? Ain’t ya tired?”

“I am, yes. But I’m also waiting for Brian. And besides, if you end up going on with the tour, I wanna get at least one goodbye out of ya.”

******************************************************************************

“Our decision is already made, Eppy. we leave for Boston in an hour.” 

“Just wanted to double check, Mal. Um… what are we going to do with George’s stuff?”

“We’re leaving his suitcase and stuff here, but we’re taking all the work equipment with us. You know, guitars, amps, and the like.”

“Yeah, all of that. But we’re just leaving his suitcase with him at the hospital?”

“Best bet. Now who’s gonna tell the boys, you or me?”

“I’ll tell them, Mal.” Brian sighed as they got in the taxi. “I’ll do it.”

******************************************************************************

“Boys, can I talk to you in the hallway?”

All of them started to leave.

“Not you, George. You’re supposed to be resting, anyways.”

With that, George laid back down. 

“Alright, Eppy. What’s the deal?” John asked. 

“We’re headed to JFK airport to go to Boston in about 30 minutes.”

“YOU’RE SHITTING US!” John exclaimed. 

Brian took a deep breath, and then continued on.

“No. I’m not joking. Mal and I decided that it would be best for us to continue the tour. However, we are meeting someone there who will cover for George until he’s both out of the hospital and fully recovered. So, send him your best wishes and we’ll be on our way.”

As they walked back to George’s room, John and Ringo decided to have a chat amongst themselves.

“Why would they do that? It’s bullshit!”

“More money. That’s what it means. More money for Brian to line his pockets with.”

“We’ve always gotten a decent cut, though, haven’t we?” 

“We have, but that shouldn’t be a reason.”

They noticed Paul soon afterwards, sulking in his own anger.

“Paulie? You’ve got anything to say?”

“No… I mean, it’s not like George could control when he got sick. And John, if you weren’t such a hardass, maybe he wouldn’t be in this state. But as we are now, we’re in no condition to perform at all. But let’s hope we get a bit of rest on the plane.” 

They entered the room to find George sitting up against the wall with that dizzy and unfocused look in his eyes.

“I was right? You’re going on? Shows how much I mean to you…”

“It’s not that, George. I promise.” Ringo said.

“It is that. Brian hates your guts and wants you out of the band for good. We’ve found someone better.” John said, deadpan and emotionless.

Paul smacked John upside the head with such force that if he were wearing his glasses, they would have flown across the room. 

“I was joshing him, Macca! Take a fucking joke!”

“Does now look like the time to be joking? We came here to do one thing.”

John sighed angrily. 

“You’re right… as always…” 

“We’re going ahead with the tour. Nothing against you, Geo.”

“I know. I figured anyways. Have fun. Don’t end up like I did.”

“Will do, Geo. Get better soon. I mean it!” Paul said.

“Yeah, get well, Hazza!” John yelled out.

“Get some rest, George.” Ringo said tenderly. “You more than any of us deserve it!” 

George nodded and waved, and the boys left without another word. 

Brian and Mal came in later.

“Hey, Hazza. You got the news?” Brian asked.

“Yep. I’m not mad about it, though. Have fun in Boston!”

“We will! Rest up and get better! We’ll miss you dearly!” Brian said as he shut the door to the room.

George laid back down, and tears began to form in his eyes. 

“Will you really miss me?” He whispered to himself sadly. 

And like that, they were off to Boston to continue the tour.


	19. A Tense Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: illness mention, seizure mention, hospital mention, managerial incompetence, emotional breakdowns

JFK Airport was crowded and busy, which seemed unusual for a 6:30pm flight. At least for the boys, that is.

However, having spent about 6 hours in a hospital, learning the truth of George’s fate after the concert, a pneumonia diagnosis, a seizure scare, and the overall fact that their manager is a FUCKING LIAR didn’t make this any easier. 

And overall, everyone was pissed. Paul was pissed at everyone except Ringo for being cruel, lying about the circumstances, and having no common sense. John was pissed at Brian because nobody told him that they’d be down a band member. Ringo was pissed at John because John was an ass. And Brian was pissed at himself because he didn’t put the health and safety of someone he was managing over the reputation of the band.

Now everyone knew that he lied about George. And needless to say, they weren’t happy with him.

“Hey, Eppy? I need to ask you an important question.” John said.

“Sure. What’s up?”

“...Why did you lie?”

“Who said I lied?”

“You lied.” 

“Well, it wasn’t lying per se-”

“Either you could have told the press that George went to the hospital last night, or you could have gotten off the goddamn phone and helped Mal and I get through that shit. I mean- what? What went through your fucking mind that night?”

It was very rare that Paul blew up at the band, but given the circumstances, what choice did he have?

“Hey, Paul-”

“Shut the FUCK UP, John! You’ve been nothing but an ass these past 6 or so days! You KNEW he was sick, you KNEW that there might have been something wrong, but you KEPT HIM AWAKE FOR 5 FUCKING DAYS?”

John, for once, had no witty rebuttal or snarky comment.

“You’ve been shit to George since the band started! And I know it’s not just you, but you seem to hurt him the most! Of course, he wouldn’t show that outright, and you call it “tough love”, which I don’t get in ANY capacity, but HOLY SHIT.” 

At this point, Paul began to break down and uncontrollably sob, almost like he had the night before. This seemed to spark more emotions in everyone involved, and it didn’t seem to stop any time soon.

“John…”

“Oh shit.”

Brian sighed in anger and embarrassment. For once, he was ready to admit that a situation was out of his hands, and he was willing to take any help he could get. This would have been understandable if he was dealing with actual children. However, that was nowhere CLOSE to the case here. He saw someone look at him in the distance, and he began to wave. However, all he heard in the distance was:

“YOU’RE A FUCKING LIAR!”

And just like that, any hope he had of help was swept away in a sea of shame. 

******************************************************************************

2 hours had passed in the gate, and everyone was a frightening combination of hungry, needing to pee, bored as shit, pissed the fuck off, emotional breakdown, and impatience. Every hour that the plane to Boston was delayed, their emotions seemed to get more intense. 

Eventually, someone spoke up.

“HOW MUCH LONGER UNTIL THIS FUCKING PLANE GETS HERE?”

Brian turned around to see Ringo, hair in his hands, agitated and anxious at the thought of another delay. 

“I can’t take it! It’s almost like they’re late ON PURPOSE! I mean, what the FUCK!” 

“Ringo?”

In the corner, the hearty sobs of Paul’s continued emotional breakdown filled the awkward silence in between impatient silence. John stroked his hair, in a failed attempt to calm him down. 

“The plane will be here in about 10 minutes. I just got off the phone with the pilot.”

“FUCKING FINALLY!” 

Mal was 10 seconds away from losing his shit. From John’s assholery to Brian’s incompetence, to Paul’s emotions, it was almost about time to call it quits for the day and go to bed as soon as they landed in Boston.

Another loud yell could be heard, this time from the corner of the gate.

“For the love of whatever’s up there, Paulie, SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

This only resulted in more sobbing.

******************************************************************************

As promised, 10 minutes later, the plane landed. As the passengers disembarked, they were understandably confused as to why Paul McCartney of all people was crying in a corner. But then they remembered that they had bags to get, so it was better for them to NOT pay attention to all of that fuckery.

The Beatles and their crew were the first to board the airplane, and as soon as they boarded, they had noticed that Paul was fast asleep. Granted, he fell asleep as he was being carried onto the plane by an exhausted John, but at least he was asleep. 

As the plane took off, Brian let his weary eyes shut and he fell asleep in seconds flat. John followed suit soon after they reached a cruising altitude. Ringo fell asleep during the safety demonstration, and Mal finally allowed himself some much needed rest as refreshments were being handed out, but only after downing a few vodka-based cocktails himself. 

Eventually, they all woke up in Boston, some feeling more refreshed than others, and walked out into the hustle and bustle of Boston Logan Airport. 

“You’re the Beatles, yes?” A guide asked them.

“We are.” Brian said.

“There’s only 3 of you, though.”

“George fell ill in NYC, so he’s in the hospital to recover.” Ringo answered before Brian could butt in. 

“What a shame, poor guy. Anyways, I’ll be driving you to your hotel for the night. Do you have your bags?”

“Not yet.”

“That’s quite alright. I’ll wait for ya.”

They got their bags and climbed into the taxi before anything else could be said. 


	20. A Feeling That Led Me Back To You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Pneumonia reference, Sigmund Freud reference, John being an asshole yet again, mention of past troubles in school, slight quip regarding incest, uncensored use of the R slur, blatant insults of intelligence, reference to a past seizure

It had only been 8 days since George was left behind in NYC to recover from a nasty bout of pneumonia, and Ringo already suspected that things weren’t going as expected. He had this odd feeling in his gut that it wasn’t  _ just  _ pneumonia that was taking such a toll on George. 

However, there wasn't much that he could do from Chicago. Don’t get Ringo wrong, Chicago is a lovely city and many artists do love to perform there. However, he just felt that things would be better if he was in New York with George. 

So, basically, he had to go back to NYC. 

“Oh relax, Ringo. It’s just pneumonia. It’s not like he’s gonna die. Now come on. We’re on stage at 7pm. You have 45 minutes to get ready.” John responded. 

Perfect. Now he had 45 minutes to ruminate on all of his anxieties instead of getting ready for the performance.

“John’s kinda right here.” Paul piped up. “I know George. He’s a resilient guy. Sure, he hasn’t gone through as much shit as any of the rest of us, but he’s strong, and he has confidence. So, he’ll make it out ok.”

“...He doesn’t have confidence, though, Paul. He just puts on a facade for everyone, including me at times. He’s so sick and tired of being seen as weak and helpless just because he’s the youngest out of us. Hell, even John said that George has no reason to ever be upset because he didn’t go through the same childhood traumas as we did. It’s all bullshit.”

“Ok, Sigmund Freud. Calm the hell down. I was right, though. George had it easier than the rest of us growing up, so he has no reason to be such a whiny little bitch about everything.” John snapped back.

“First of all, nowhere did I ever say that George fucked his mother or ever wanted to fuck his mother, so don’t pull that Freud bullshit out of your ass. Second of all, didn’t one of you say that he had trouble in school? That he didn’t feel understood and that he didn’t understand what was being taught?”

“I said that. I tried to help him, but he just got so frustrated…” Paul lamented. “...I guess he still thinks about it sometimes. On the odd occasion, well a lot of the time, actually, I’ll hear him call himself stupid. It breaks my heart, because he does know a lot about guitars and music and stuff.”

“He can’t even read sheet music.”

“John. I’m the only one among us who can read sheet music. But I digress.”

“Boys, we’re on in 30!” Mal yelled into the door. 

“Thank you, 30!” They yelled out in unison.

“He beats himself up over weird shit. Like, he couldn’t open a packet of crisps once and he got frustrated, so I handed him a pair of scissors, and he just started mumbling to himself and crying.” John stated. “I mean, if I didn't know better, I would have straight up just called him a fucking retard in that situation. Like…” 

Ringo sighed heavily, almost ready to knock out John for even muttering that word. 

“He probably wanted to open it by himself. You know how he is, dangerously independent. Remember Hamburg, when he tried holding his own in fights?” Paul quipped. 

“Oh yeah, I do. I mean, George is rather stupid, but I have to give him credit for trying to function on his own.”

“ENOUGH.”

The other 2 stared at Ringo in shock.

“Yes, he may have difficulties in things that we don’t. That does not make him stupid. And frankly, John, I’m beyond angered that you would use that word.” 

“...Do you mean ‘stupid’?”

“No. The other word. The one that begins with an ‘r’.” 

“What’s the issue with the word?”

“...come on, John. Don’t press my fucking buttons today.” 

Paul turned back to the mirror and ran a brush through his perfectly coiffed hair. 

“Well, whatever it was, I hope that his brain doing the chimichanga didn’t make it worse.” John spat out. 

Ringo bit the inside of his lip to keep from starting a fight. 

******************************************************************************

The show ended like any other, with a success and a bunch of satisfied horny teenagers. Immediately upon exiting the stage, Ringo noticed Mal talking on the phone with someone about going to New York for a week or so to check up on George. As Mal hung up the phone, he found Ringo standing in front of him. 

“Hey, Mal. I couldn’t help but notice that you were going to New York for a week?”

“Yep.”

“I was wondering, and you don’t have to if you don’t want to, but could you possibly take me with you?”

“...why?”

“I’m really scared for George. I think he might be more sick than he’s leading on when we phone him. And I don’t want him to be so sick. You know? George means a lot to me.”

Mal paused for a second as he overlooked a notebook filled with dates and events.

“You have a week off and I have 2 tickets to New York. Yeah, you can come with me. We’re leaving for the airport at 6am, so make sure to have everything ready tonight. I’ll let Brian know that you’ll spend the week with me. He can handle John and Paul on his own, hopefully. Maybe we can go sightseeing again?”

“The only sight I want to see is George…”

“I get it, son. But yea, you can come with me.”

Ringo hugged Mal tightly, barely leaving him room to breathe.

“Oh, thank you, Mal!”

Mal stroked Ringo’s hair.

“It’s no problem, Rings…” 


	21. I Just Had To See You Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Hospital setting, vomit, anxiety symptoms, blood, ulcers, mentions of surgery

The clocks in the halls of St. Mary’s hospital read 1pm, and the halls were already filled with commotion and excitement. Not only did people seem to be prone to accidents involving construction tools, pantyhose, and mason jars; but someone special was due to visit a certain patient. 

Ringo had spent all morning crammed in an airplane on an uncomfortable express flight from Chicago. From there, he was shoved into a taxi by Mal, impatiently waiting in the lobby of a 3 star hotel with dingy carpets and sticky walls, squeezed in a shithole of a hotel room with 2 structures that barely resembled beds, ended up having to push Mal into a taxi, and finally walked into the lobby of the hospital waiting room. 

After about 15 minutes of waiting, he was finally called back to be allowed to visit George, and as he was called, he practically ran towards the door of his room. 

During this commotion, George was sat up in his bed, still pale and ungodly thin, but without the oxygen mask over his face, but rather just a simple cannula that went in his nostrils, and reading a fashion and gossip magazine that a fan had left for him from a press visit. The striped pajamas were folded neatly on a chair, and instead, he wore a simple sky blue button-up shirt and jeans. Normally, Lucy would have insisted that he stay in something comfortable, but since she knew that Ringo was spending the week in the city, she allowed him to dress up a bit. 

Ringo ran straight into the room and almost knocked George onto the other side of the bed with the force that he hugged his best mate with. 

This ended up knocking George straight onto his back, but luckily, Ringo lent him one of his hands so that he could get back onto the bed. As he stood up, George began to feel a bit dizzy, so he sat directly on the bed and laid straight down. 

“So… how are things in your department?” Ringo asked. 

George sat himself up in the bed.

“Well, it’s a mixture of good and bad news. The good news? I’m not as reliant on oxygen, and I’m not coughing up as much blood as I was a bit ago. The bad news? Well, I still have pneumonia. And they also found out why I can’t eat. I have pretty bad stomach ulcers, and they say that my stomach is about… 75% filled with blood from those ulcers. I’m actually going under tomorrow to drain some of the blood, so that they can work more on actually getting me to eat. I’m kind of scared about it…”

Ringo sighed and rested a hand on George’s bony shoulder.

“I’ve had plenty of operations myself, Geo. You’ll end up ok. Hopefully, these doctors know what they’re doing.”

“Are you sure? I’ve never really had an operation before…”

“You’ll end up feeling better afterwards. Not at first, of course, but gradually.”

Despite his fears of surgery being assuaged, George still had an anxious look on his face as it seemed to turn a shade of green, and his breathing got heavier. Eventually, Ringo caught on to what was happening and handed him a small garbage receptacle. After a few minutes of gross sounds that will not be described so as to save the audience their lunches, George curled back into himself on the bed and whimpered a bit. 

“Hey, George?” Ringo said as he re-entered the room sans trash bin, “There must be something else going on. What is it?”

George groaned as he sat back up.

“I don’t know.”

“You can be honest with me, here. It’s just me. John and Paul are in Chicago, and Mal’s doing God knows what. It’s just the two of us. What’s going through your mind?”

“...in all honesty, I’m not feeling better. Actually, I’m feeling much worse. And I don’t know why.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“I don’t feel… right. I should be in Chicago with you guys, performing for the crowd, making people happy. But instead, I’m here. Stuck in bed for a good portion of the day, barely able to keep down a cup of water, and I have these horrible muscle aches.”

Ringo rested his hand to George’s forehead, and was shocked with how warm it still was.

“Christ, Geo. I don’t blame you. You’re still burning.”

“I know. It doesn't help that I can’t seem to get a decent amount of rest without John’s voice nagging at my brain for not working. It’s like, I’m sure John still sees me as a helpless, stupid little kid who can’t function on his own. And it’s ridiculous. I’m a goddamn adult, and he treats me like I’m still a child. It makes me feel…”

“Like shit?”

“Like shit.” 

At this point, George’s voice was shaking like a leaf in the wind, and Ringo thought it best to hold him in a tight, reassuring embrace. 

“Hey, Geo? You’re not alone. I’m here for you, ok?”

“...ok…”

“And I want you to see something, ok?”

George lifted his head from Ringo’s shoulders and stared at a pile of wrapped presents and gift baskets and other containers filled with all sorts of trinkets and goodies and cards. 

“It’s not just me. You have fans from all over the world who love you and want nothing but the best for you, ok?”

“That’s not even all of it, I believe.”

“Wow. That just proves my point. You know what else?”

“What?”

“You also have me. No matter what, if I’m at the hotel, feel free to call me. Hell, I’ll even get up at the ass-crack of dawn to talk to you. And I’m not even a morning person! Point is… I love you, and I hate that you’re in this much pain. Ok?”

“...ok. And before you say anything else, I love you too.” 

Ringo couldn’t help but smile a bit, and his eyes filled with all the warmth and happiness that he could muster.

“I would kiss you, but-”

“I literally just threw up. And I’m pretty sure it was 90% blood.”

“...that, yes. And Mal’s calling me to take a walk. I’ll see you in an hour or so?”

“Yeah, take your time. No rush.” 

******************************************************************************

As Ringo laid his head on the pillow on that shitty bed that night, he couldn’t help but think that he may have helped George feel at least a little bit better. Even if it wouldn’t last for long, what with an upcoming surgery. But at least he helped a little bit.

And that’s all that mattered to him.


	22. Back, But Not All Better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: surgery mention, blood mention, ulcers mention, panic attacks mention, John being a dick, flashbacks

Mal had decided to cut the trip short and head back early to meet everyone in Cincinnati on the 12th to have more practice time with the new setlist and to finish the album. He wasn’t too happy about this, but what choice did he have?

Finally, the 12th came, and Brian sat at the door of the hotel room anxiously. As much as he wanted Mal back just to see him and Ringo and get an update on George, he also couldn’t handle John alone anymore. But Mal had assured them that they would be back at around 8pm.

8pm came, and right on cue, the door opened to reveal Mal and Ringo holding their suitcases.

“Hey, you two! How was NYC?”

“Fucking miserable.” Mal retorted. “Where are John and Paul?”

“In their room. Ringo, they saved a bed for you.”

“Ok….?”

At this point, Ringo was holding in quite a bit of his anger. A bit of it was towards the crowds in the airport and how long everything took, another part of it was his fear for George’s health. He was aware that his recent surgery did show some improvement in reducing the amount of blood in his stomach, but they still had no idea what was even causing the ulcers. 

But even more troubling for Ringo was the fact that George still showed a lot of anxious symptoms, and was even having more frequent panic attacks. Now, George would have never told anyone if he was having an attack, but it’s not exactly something that can be hidden from professional medical staff, and he felt more emotionally vulnerable around Ringo.

At the moment, most of Ringo’s anger went towards John.

He was absolutely disgusted and infuriated with how John was handling the situation, basically brushing it off as if nothing happened. As far as John was concerned, George being out on “medical leave” was the best thing to happen to the tour. He showed no concern for him. And maybe George could feel that energy from John, and maybe that was the main catalyst for the panic attacks. 

However, Ringo thought it best to hide all of those negative emotions far below the surface. On the outside, he pulled a neutral, tired face. But on the inside, he was seething with absolute fury and frustration. As much as he wanted to beat John into the bloodiest fucking pulp he could while running on pure fumes and -8 hours of sleep, he knew that it would be best to not risk the band’s reputation.

“I think I’m gonna go to bed.” Ringo said nonchalantly. “I’ll shower in the morning and all that jazz.”

“Ok, if you really feel that way. Rest easy, Rich.”

“...I’ll try.”

As Ringo walked into the room, he was pulled into a tight embrace by Paul, who was just so excited to see him again.

“Hey, Macca. How was Chicago?”

“Fun. We walked around, did a bunch of stuff.”

“That’s nice.”

In the corner of his eye, he spotted John, who was reading a magazine on the left side of the bed that he and Paul shared. In a flash, he felt all of his anger snap back into him. But he was grounded by the feeling of Paul around him, and he knew that now was not the time to be mad.

“So? How is Hazza?”

“...still not 100%. Kinda getting there, though. He still doesn’t have much of an appetite, and that cough isn’t getting better.”

“How does he STILL have fucking pneumonia? Don’t you recover from it in a week?” John asked in frustration. 

Now was not the time to blow up. Deep breaths, compose yourself, Ringo thought to himself.

“Must be a really bad case. I mean-”

In that instant, the image of George from Halloween’s eve flashed back, the one where he stood against the wall, skeletal and feverish, almost like a re-animated corpse. Ringo choked back tears at the thought.

“What?”

“...nothing. I’m going to go to bed. We have an early morning.”

“We do. I’m thinking of going to bed too.”

Paul and Ringo crawled into their own beds, hoping to catch some sleep before their move-on tomorrow morning. While Paul fell asleep almost instantly, Ringo lay awake with all of his thoughts coursing through his head.

He wanted to call George, but he figured that George needed the rest. 


	23. Don’t Spread What You Don’t Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: anxiety mention, panic attacks mention, Violation of the Oath of Hippocrates, mentions of mental hospitals, pneumonia mention, ICU mention, hospital setting mention

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“Give me the paper, Eppy! I wanna read it too!”

“Paul, maybe the paper isn’t the best thing for your mental state.”

“What are they saying?”

It was around 6:30 in the evening when Brian finally was able to pick up the newspaper, and from what everyone was saying, it was safe to say that Ringo shouldn’t have left New York last night. 

He was on edge the whole day in Des Moines, and now he knew why.

The newspapers were out there making all sorts of accusations. Sure, not everyone knew why George wasn’t on tour with them, but the rumor mill was on full power and couldn’t be stopped.

“It’s actually probably not bullshit, though.” Ringo said. “I mean, let me see it.”

As Ringo scanned to find George, he read some other juicy headlines about the other music stars, sleazy politicians, and movie stars. 

“Pregnancy scare, hit-and-run accident, box-office bomb, mistress reveal, divorce in process- ah! Here he is! Speculations of George Harrison’s absence from the recent Beatles tour stemming from… anxiety.”

“Anxiety?” Mal said, confused.

Ringo kept reading.

“Dr. Lucy Safiya Dicosmo has confirmed with ABC News that Harrison is in the process of acquiring a diagnosis of Generalized Anxiety Disorder, which could explain his recent bout of illness that has left him hospitalized in New York City.”

“Everyone has anxiety, though. It’s fairly common.” John replied.

“Here’s the thing, though. ‘It has been reported that since being hospitalized, Harrison has had a number of panic attacks because of his absence from the tour.’ Yeah, he’s having goddamn panic attacks.”

“I’ve seen him have panic attacks before.” Paul admitted. “Mostly at the Institute, like right around exams and assignments being due. But he’s had them recently too. Like, whenever we leave for tours, he gets all shaky and he told me that he can’t breathe. I feel so bad for him.”

“Wait, he’s had these before?” Mal asked, confused.

“A few that I can remember, yes. I’ve woken up in the middle of the night and heard shuddering and hyperventilating coming from the closets of the hotel rooms. It was him. Unnerving. And the mornings after, he seemed exhausted, but pushed himself to seem “ok.” Broke my heart.” Ringo explained, sighing heavily.

“Oh, that explains those mornings then.” Brian piped up.

“Wait. Are you saying that you’ve noticed this?”

“No.”

“...But you’ve noticed him in an anxious state before, right?”

“Yes. At quite a few interviews, actually. But I’m not insinuating anything.”

“Wait, there’s more.” Ringo stated.

“More?”

“Yeah, listen to this. ‘In hopes of seeing improvement in his anxious symptoms and panic attacks, the head staff at St. Mary’s Hospital is planning on sending him to be admitted into a mental health institution. How long he will stay is unknown, but we certainly wish the best for him.”

“...A PSYCH WARD?” John cried out.

“But, they can’t move him.” Paul said.

“Why not?”

“He has pneumonia, right? And on top of that, if he’s not eating…”

“Are you saying that he’s too fragile to be transferred?”

“I mean, when he was admitted, they had to take him out of the ICU in case he contracted something from the other patients in there.” Mal said matter-of-factly.

Everyone turned their heads to Mal in shock.

“He was in the FUCKING ICU?”

“When he was admitted. It wasn’t good, but they also didn’t want him getting worse. That and after a few hours of meds, the fever went down.”

“That’s good, I guess.”

“Yeah, they can’t move him.” Ringo stated. “Especially when he has something like pneumonia. That can REALLY fuck you up.”

“And like I said, if we or the doctors explicitly haven’t said anything about the matter, then the fans shouldn’t listen to it.” Brian quipped. 

“If only it were that easy.” Ringo lamented.


	24. Well, What Do You Know?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Anxiety diagnosis, mental institution mention, hospital setting

2 days later, Lucy walked into George’s room with her usual clipboard. 

“Well, normally, I’d just do your 4:30 vitals and move on, but I actually have some news for you.”

“Really?” George asked, sitting himself up with his elbows.

“Yeah. I was surprised too, but oh well. Here goes.”

She flipped through the papers, and finally found the one she was looking for.

“We have confirmed your diagnosis of Generalized Anxiety Disorder, or GAD.”

George’s breath hitched, and he looked up at Lucy with worry.

“So, I’m not faking? I literally have anxiety.”

“Yes, Mr. Harrison. You LITERALLY have an anxiety disorder.”

“...oh.”

Almost immediately, all sorts of possibilities began to swirl through his head. He wondered how the rest of the Beatles would view him not only as an artist, but also as a person. He wondered if they would only see it as an excuse, and force him to work past his breaking point; or if they would take it to heart, and begin to coddle him and shelter him to unbelievable lengths. Would they even take him and his growing songwriting skills seriously? Or would they continue to write him off as ‘just the guitarist’?

Would he be sent to an institution?

Lucy took note of how he seemed to fold in on himself, and how he had his hands cupped over his face, though she couldn’t figure out why. 

She took a seat next to him on the bed and gently rested her hand on his bony shoulder.

“If it’s any consolation, George, you won’t be going to a mental health institution any time soon.”

George looked up at Lucy with a little bit of hope.

“I won’t?”

“Let’s get this straight. You are dealing with a lot of anxiety right now. But at this very moment, a mental health institution would not be an appropriate course of action. At least not while you’re fighting a pneumonia that just won’t go away. That would just be a disaster.”

“Well, are you the only one that thinks that?” George asked.

Lucy sighed, knowing that this question came from a place of uncertainty.

“No. When we were going over everything, at first, we considered that. However, the head of the hospital brought it up, me and the 2 interns that are shadowing me, you know them. Darlene and Anna, right?”

“Yeah, I know them. The ginger lass and the other one with the 2 different eyes.”

“Yeah, them. Anyways, all 3 of us were like, “Wait. That’s bullshit. Like, this is the same person that had to be moved OUT of the ICU to avoid dying.” And the head doctor was like, “Yeah, that was a bad idea.” So it was a unanimous decision to keep you here.”

“...oh.” 

“Yep. For now, just keep on resting and all that jazz.”

“I’ll try.”

“I’ll bring you some soup later on, try to get you to eat a little something.”

“I’ve been trying.” George mentioned mournfully.

“I know, luv.” Lucy said. “I know. Hopefully, when we get your anxiety more under control, we’ll see some improvement in those ulcers, ok? I’m glad you’re making an attempt, though. Just… breathe a little. Ok?” 

George sighed.

“Ok.” 


	25. Crossing Vital Boundaries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Hospital setting, panic attack

The next day, at 2:30pm EST, George was hanging out on his bed, simply trying to relax and read the newspaper. As he leafed through the pages and struggled to find anything gripping enough to grab his attention, he felt this sense of dread shiver down his spine. 

Something told him that his whole day was about to be ruined.

In absolutely no time at all, the door slammed open to the tune of tens of cameras flashing away without a care in the world.

George flinched at the flashing lights and grabbed a pillow in an attempt to shield his face.

“Mr. Harrison! Any word on the progress of the new album?”

“Mr. Harrison, when are you getting married?”

“George, do you miss your band mates?”

George winced uncomfortably at the flashing cameras and overlapping questions, and he was about ready to suffocate himself with the pillow to get it all to stop.

The questions continued on, though.

“Mr. Harrison, do you have more songs planned for future projects?”

George felt his chest tighten and his breathing quicken.

“George, this question is from my boss. How do you take your coffee?”

At some point, all of their voices started to overlap and actually became much louder and more unbearable to deal with. He tried to get some non-pillow air, but as he drew the pillow away from his face, he noticed how his vision had started to get blurry. He tried focusing on one particular face to find, but that was to no avail, as there was almost a sea of faces curled around 3 of the walls of that now cramped hospital room. 

The room also started spinning. Either that or he had grown incredibly dizzy. 

He was still hyperventilating though, so it was more likely that he was dizzy. 

Imagine that, he began to think. Here he was, just sitting on the edge of his bed, mentally trying to ward off the paparazzi, and even the sheer thought of it began to make him dizzy.

But something else had begun to scare him.

There was this sickly pounding in his chest. And it was fairly loud, too. 

Little did George know that Lucy had been standing at the door frame, observing the fuckery in its entirety. The whole time, she had this pained scowl on her face, and there was a twinge of anger in her eyes. 

She had to make a move. 

“Alright, you guys. That’s enough now. I’ll ask you all now to please leave.” She said sternly, her voice barely hitting the outer edge of the crowd. 

As she made that realization, her anger grew, and she found herself shoving herself in between the crowd forcefully.

The crowd ignored this, and they continued to press George about these matters.

By now, George had grown almost transparent, he was that pale. He was shaking tremendously and was barely able to catch one simple breath in the chaos. He felt so closed in and unable to escape.

Was this how he would die?

In the midst of the chaos, a familiar voice rang through in an attempt to pull him out of his thoughts. 

“This is your final warning! Get out, or I WILL take things into my own hands.”

Lucy.

But still, the press continued on.

“George. Were you even paying attention to our questions?”

He couldn’t respond. There was absolutely no way. He was so fenced in that even moving slightly set off bear traps.

“¡Eso es todo! ¡No me has estado escuchando ahora, así que me estoy poniendo a tu nivel! ¡Fuera de aquí! ¡Ahora!” (That’s it! You haven’t been listening to me now, so I’m getting on your level! Get the fuck out! Now!)

“Hey, what gives, lady?”

“Yeah, we’re just doing our jobs!”

“¡Tu único trabajo parece llevar a la gente al borde de la locura!” (Your only job seems to be driving people to the brink of insanity!) Lucy continued yelling.

“Geez, leave us alone! It’s not hurting him.” One paparazzo protested. 

“Well, how do you know?” Darlene calmly asked, seeming to have spawned out of nowhere.

Lucy looked over at Anna, who was attempting to assist George with an oxygen mask. This seemed to fuel her frustration, and she angrily whipped off her scarlet red high heel.

This tipped off one of the cameramen, and they started to cue everyone else to go away. Soon, the room was almost completely cleared out aside from the doctors and the guitarist. 

By now, the atmosphere in the room was anything but serene, and Lucy sighed to herself in defeat. 

She felt as if she had failed in preventing yet another panic attack, and she started to wonder how she could even begin to help him. 


	26. On a Low and Just Getting Lower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: fainting, anxiety symptoms

3pm rolled around the next day, and George still wasn’t feeling better from the events of the previous day. He was still sitting on the edge of his bed, fiddling with a string that had fallen off of his socks, trying to distract himself from all of the negative emotions swirling in his brain like a hurricane.

He was also still pretty cold, shivering in the only blanket that was allowed on his bed, yet he also seemed to be sweating up a storm, as he was fanning himself with his hand. His breath also still seemed shaky, and a decent one was hard to catch. The cannula was providing  _ some _ relief, but not enough.

He wanted his guitar. Or a decent sized book to read. Or just… anything other than sitting in his own room, on his own bed.

As much as he hated being famous and being on tours, he was really starting to miss this tour. It hurt him internally to know that he couldn’t do what he loved most: playing music that made people happy.

But then something caught his eye.

There was a blank pad of paper and a half-filled pen sitting on a chair in plain view. 

He thought about writing a letter to Ringo. 

He missed Ringo.

He moved to the right of the bed, waiting to gather the courage to stand up and grab the pad and pen. But as he moved to stand up, his head became completely light. He gripped the end bedframe, thinking that it would help him keep his balance.

He was wrong.

******************************************************************************

Lucy stood in the adjacent, empty room with Anna as both of them discussed their Thanksgiving plans.

“Yeah, my dad’s coming from Norway this year.” Anna explained. “He normally never comes home for Thanksgiving, but I told him about what was happening at work and he wants ALL of the details.”

“Wow. Your dad’s a bigger Beatlemaniac than I am.” Lucy remarked.

“Yeah. He was at the recent concert here in NYC. I asked him about how it was, and he even noticed that George was a little… off.”

“So, let me get this straight. Your DAD picked up on it, but not Brian?”

“Mhm. He told his Norwegian work colleagues about the situation. It was wild.”

“Oh. Also, is your dad native to Norway?”

“No. He’s actually from Denmark. My mom is Swedish.”

“Oh. What’s he doing in Norway then?”

“He works in marketing.”

“Neat.”

“I’d say.”

The two heard a soft thud, and panic filled Lucy’s heart.

“George?” She almost yelled in shock.

******************************************************************************

George woke up in his bed, the full blanket completely gone, and only the top sheet. His head hurt and he noticed Lucy standing over the end of the bed.

“Hey, George. What happened?”

He sat up, holding his head in his hands.

“I saw something on the chair, so I went to get it.”

“Alright, then. Why don’t you try and relax, though?” She said as she left.

As Lucy closed the door behind her, he could feel tears in the corners of his eyes. Now that he was all alone again, he felt more comfortable letting his emotions run free.

Truthfully, he couldn’t do much  _ but  _ cry, but the heart palpitations also came back, which made him more anxious in return. 

After a few minutes of crying, he didn’t feel better. Not at all.

In fact, his self-esteem got even lower than it was earlier in the day.

He was just lonely.


	27. Almost All in the Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Anxiety, past childhood trauma mentions, medication mention

There was something serene in the air the next morning. Well, serene for most of the staff and other patients.

For one older woman, however, the vibe was more sad. She had an idea of where the vibe was coming from, and she desperately wanted to fix it. As she opened the door, she barely had an idea that she would have had an encounter with a Beatle of all people.

“Hello?” She called out softly.

“It’s 8am. How did you find my room?” George asked, slightly panicked.

“Your vibes, dearie.”

“My… what?”

“You seem to have a melancholy vibe, honey. Almost like there’s a weight on your chest that you can’t quite lift.”

“I guess you’re right. I haven’t talked to my friends in about a month and I kinda miss playing music.”

“I completely understand. My only reason for my being here is to help you clear your mind and maybe finally get some quality rest.”

George poked at the dark circles under his eyes.

“Before we actually do anything, though, I figured I should introduce myself. My name is Chintanika. I come from a long line of meditation teachers. For some reason, you called out to me as someone who needs inner peace, so I figured I would help out with that.”

“Oh, I greatly appreciate your help. Thank you so much for finding me.” George replied almost desperately.

She moved to sit on the end of his bed, to which he responded by curling himself closer to the head of the bed to give the older woman some much needed room.

“If you don’t mind my asking, miss. What exactly do you teach?”

“My specialties are in not just meditation, but also something called bhakti yoga. You might like that one. For now, though, I want to start you off with just a simple meditation.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Now, sit up, darling. And as you sit up, make sure to pay attention to your body’s placement. Normally, I would be doing this on the floor, but for now, this seems best.”

George did as he was directed to and sat himself up, using the headboard of the bed as a support. He became even more aware of his weight on the bed as he closed his eyes.

“Anxiety is the name of the game here, I assume. So, for now, let’s focus on one simple thought. Allow negative emotions to exist but do not let them take over your life. Now, follow my breathing.”

The two breathed deeply in unison, and as George allowed himself to open his mind to explore the emotions he had long repressed from about the age of 13, it all overwhelmed him like the opening of Pandora’s Box. 

The feelings of shame from dropping out of school, the fear of performing in front of thousands if not millions of people and possibly getting punched or thrashed or any other number of crowd injuries, the fevered haze of his first Ed Sullivan show, all of it just coming back.

Chintanika rested her hand on George’s shoulder.

“We’ll stop here for now. Stop, and redirect. Imagine yourself on a beach in Tahiti.”

“Tahiti…”

“What was it like there? Think back to all of the sensations you felt. Was it a calm, happy place for you?”

A warm smile creeped onto George’s face as he remembered his vacation with Pattie, and just how at peace he was.

Chintanika smiled as George’s vibe seemed to slowly grow happier and more calm.

“You can open your eyes now, George.”

George opened his eyes and found his breathing to be more level and calm.

“...how did that work?”

“Sometimes, letting your mind wander will get you where you truly need to be. Now, just a reminder: this isn’t a cure. You’ll still most likely struggle with your anxiety for all of your life.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I figured as much. I’ll keep taking my anti-anxiety meds, but for some reason, this helps out too.”

“Well, I’m glad. And for the rest of your stay here, I’ll meditate with you every day if it helps.”

“Oh, thanks! Just a suggestion, though. Maybe not so early in the morning next time?”

“Oh yeah, I get it. I’m always free at 4pm anyways.”


	28. Rest and Rejuvenation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Hospital setting

A week had passed since George had started meditating, and he had started to notice an overall improvement in his health. He had felt a bit better in terms of his breathing and his stress levels, even to the point where he was actually able to eat something other than clear soup broth, which was a welcome change.

Sure, it was still in worryingly small amounts, but Lucy would take any progress that came her way. 

Lucy began taking her lunch breaks with George, and the two would just talk about general things like family drama, bullshit with work colleagues, what was happening in the news, anything of that sort.

For Lucy, it was nice to have a friend to talk to.

And for George, it was nice to have someone who didn’t see him as an untouchable perfect idol, but rather a human being with his own feelings and struggles.

“Hey, George? I’m not sure how often you’ll hear this, but I’m really proud of you.” Lucy blurted out over a turkey club.

George looked up from the cup of Jell-O in his hands.

“Yeah. it may not show to others, but you’ve made a bit of progress here. Sure, it took a hell of a long time, and you may have had more downs than ups in the beginning, but you still got here. And I know that when you leave next week… it’ll hurt  _ just  _ a little bit, but I’ll just get back into the grind of things.”

George nodded and sighed to himself.

“We’ll still be able to write to each other, though. Right?”

Lucy nodded.

“Of course! Tell ya what, I’ll give you my address later tonight. And when you get back to England, we’ll start writing then, ok?”

“Ok!” 

Lucy left, signaling the end of her lunch break.

That’s when George got the idea to write to Ringo.

******************************************************************************

_ 28 November, 1965 _

_ St. Mary’s Hospital, NYC, NY _

_ 2:30pm _

_ Dear Ringo,  _

_ Hope all’s been well with everyone else. Hope John hasn’t gotten on your nerves too much (though I won’t blame you if you do kill him).  _

_ Anyways, I just received word that I’ll be back with everyone in a week! I can’t wait to see you again! Though I won’t be able to perform for a while, it will be nice to see everyone again.  _

_ Just a small favor, though. Please don’t tell Paul. I want to surprise him on stage on Christmas, and if he finds out beforehand, that might ruin it, hehe… _

_ Anyways, please send my warmest regards to basically everyone else, and get this to Eppy as soon as you’re done reading it. _

_ With all the love of a thousand moons, _

_ George. _


	29. Going Back to Everyday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Hospital setting, medication talk

December 5th had finally arrived, a day that Lucy had internally dreaded since its announcement. 

George was finally cleared to work with the Beatles again.

When the day arrived, George had spent the morning writing letters to all of the doctors and other staff who helped him throughout the whole ride, and even apologized for being a nuisance. After writing the letters, he had packed up the suitcase he was left by Brian, showered, brushed his hair, used a little bit of the French cologne a fan had given him, and spent the rest of his waiting time reading a book that Chintanika had given him about mindful meditation.

******************************************************************************

Finally, 4pm arrived, and George was directed to the front doors.

Lucy had a tight grip on the handles of the wheelchair (George had initially protested this, but after learning it was just policy, had resigned to it), waiting to see who would be receiving him.

Mal and John walked through the doors. Upon their arrival, Mal was given some paperwork to sign on a wooden clipboard, and John had resigned to a sports magazine from the waiting room. After a few minutes, Mal had taken over steering the wheelchair and the 3 started making their way to the car.

“Wait!”

George had suddenly gotten up and was hugging Lucy.

“I just wanted to say… thank you. For absolutely everything.”

He sat back down, and Mal once again started the journey to the car.

As the doors closed, Lucy noticed herself shuddering and wiping away a few tears.

“Are you crying?” Anna joked.

“NO! I’m not crying. Just… some dust in my eyes, that’s all.” Lucy retorted.

Darlene sighed, chuckled a bit, and handed her her handkerchief.

“Just take it darling.” She whispered.

Lucy blotted the inner corners of her eyes, and then noticed Darlene poking at her arm.

“I miss him, too.” Darlene said.

The two shared a tender hug as Anna stared at her watch, wondering when the cafe would close and if she could stop by after her shift.

******************************************************************************

After a long and exhausting plane ride, the 3 finally arrived in San Diego. John was the first up from the seats, moving to grab their suitcases. Mal opted to stay with George, asking him what sounded alright from where they were planning to eat at for dinner.

Once they were all off the plane, they had somehow managed to make it to their car without much paparazzi interruption, and were swiftly on the way to the hotel.

“Now, George. Brian will tell you this, but I just figured you’d rather hear it from me.”

“Mhm.”

“You are aware that you will not be performing until Christmas. You will still travel with us, but Brian has ordered you to strict bed rest.”

“That shouldn’t be an issue.” George yawned. “I’m absolutely knackered.”

“How?” John joked.

“Pneumonia does that to you. That, and a whole anxiety disorder. Are you on meds for that?”

“Wouldn’t it be in the paperwork?”

Mal searched through his bag and read through the discharge instructions once again.

“Ah yeah. Prozac. Is it working?”

“A bit, yeah. Might take longer for it to work fully, though.”

“Ah.”

******************************************************************************

They finally made it to the hotel. George couldn’t wait to lie down on a comfortable bed and snuggle up in blankets that would actually keep him warm at night.

He opened the door to find Ringo and Brian sitting on fairly comfortable office chairs, just… waiting. Ringo stood up as soon as the door opened and ran in for a hug so hard that George fell straight onto his ass.

“Missed you too, Rings.” George said lovingly.

“You must be exhausted, love. Come on, I’ll make a cup of tea, put on a movie.”

“I don’t really want any tea right now, but thanks.”

George moved to the bed, wrapping the covers around his bony shoulders. Ringo moved to sit next to him.

“Y’know, I really missed you all. Where’s Paul, though?”

“On a tour of the city.” Brian said. “Why?”

“Just wanted to figure out how to surprise him, is all. I know it’ll be on Christmas, and during the show. But how do we wanna do it?”

John smirked.

“How about half way through, our temp leaves, and you take his place?”

“I like that idea.”

“But how are we going to announce it?”

“I’ll make a big deal out of it. Like one of those wrestling shows or something.”

George laughed a bit.

“Ok, then.”


	30. Seattle Christmas Reunion

Finally, Christmas came, and George couldn’t wait. He had been tuning and practicing all day on the train to Seattle, eager to impress and make up for his almost month-long absence.

8pm came, and this point, everyone else was having a blast. 

It seemed like an odd idea to do a show on Christmas, but it was less of a show and more of a private gathering for a rich girl’s school in the city, so there was less objection.

On the dot, the temporary guitarist left the stage, setting the guitar down as he left.

This seemed to confuse Paul a bit.

“John, what’s going on?”

“Wait.”

There was an unexpected anticipation from the crowd. The lights dimmed, and a spotlight appeared over John.

“Ladies,” he said into a microphone, “we have a little Christmas present for you.”

A scream roared from the crowd, and Paul just stared even more.

“You know him, hell, you may even love him. But he’s BACK!”

“..who?”

The lights went out again. When they came back up, George was standing in front of the microphone, holding his trusty Gretsch guitar.

“Lovely to be back performing for you all.” 

The crowd erupted into a cacophony of loud, teenage screams, and even Paul couldn’t contain his excitement. He ran into George with the speed of a cheetah, accidentally tackling him to the ground as a result.

“Sorry ‘bout that, mate.”

“No problem.” George muttered as he stood back up, guitar in clutch. As he stood back up and made his way to the guitar, the crowd continued their screams, and George took a minute to situate himself in front of the mic.

“Alright then. I figure you all will know this one, it’s by our good friend, Chuck Berry.”

He plucked out the opening notes of “Roll Over Beethoven”, and the concert continued without a hitch.


	31. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Anxiety, depression, anorexia, self-harm, John being a major asshole, major character death, mention of mental hospitals

It had been roughly 2 years and some additional time since the whole fiasco, and there were some major changes in the dynamics of the band.

For one, their manager, Brian Epstein, had died in 1967, which had left John in a rough emotional state. 

Before that, however, the 4 musicians decided to embark on a spiritual journey to India. There, George quickly dove head first into hardcore meditation, and found it quite enjoyable. As a result, he completely abandoned his anti-anxiety medication, thinking that it was causing more problems than it was solving.

However, this was far from the case. Not only did his anxiety worsen, but he also developed depression, anorexia, and self-harm tendencies.

So yeah. Things were NOT going well in the slightest.

On the 1st of October, 1968, the boys all found themselves in Abbey Road Studios, recording material for their newest album, “The Beatles”. 

George was practicing one of the songs with John in one recording booth while Paul and Ringo practiced about 3 doors down. Throughout the practice section, John had been making sly, crude comments towards George, mostly about the fact that he looked exhausted.

Now, that was only part of the truth. Yes, George was rather tired, but that was mostly because his depression had left him wanting only to sleep, yet his initial anxiety kept him awake thinking about all sorts of possibilities about almost every little thing that could go wrong in the middle of the night and how if he wasn’t awake to stop it all, he would have failed at protecting his wife and his home and what kind of a person would that make him look like?

But of course he couldn’t tell John any of that.

He just chuckled a little bit and shrugged his shoulders.

“Just one of those nights, I guess.” George sighed, taking another drag of his cigarette. “Who even sleeps anymore?”

“....literally everyone else. The fuck?”

George picked his guitar back up and checked the clock on the wall by the door. 

“10pm. We should be out of here by 10:05 if everything goes to plan.”

“Knowing you, we’ll be here all night doing this shit.”

“You’re free to leave any time, John.”

“I just might.”

John stood up and made his way towards the door, only to just grab a chair and move to sit directly behind George, who plucked at the strings of the guitar with shaky, bony hands.

“You’re playing that chord wrong.”

“...you think I don’t know how to play the chords to my own goddamn song, John?”

“I mean, a literal baby could play it better than you. You’ve always been shit, but you’ve just gone downhill since Eppy passed.”

“John, I’m respectfully asking you to stop.” George piped up, his voice slightly shaking.

“At least my best friend isn’t a razor blade.”

George had no response to that. He had fully clammed up and started picking at the skin nearest to his elbow.

“And I don’t need to fill the void in my life with diet pills and cigarettes.”

George felt like he was glued to his spot on the floor. He had moved from picking his elbow to scratching at his thumb. Finally, he came up with an excuse.

“...I need the loo.”

He got up, grabbed his near empty pack of cigarettes, and left the room. As he stood in the doorway, John felt the need to make one last jab.

“By the way, Hazza. It’s down the road. Not across the street.”

George ran off in a haze, not sure exactly where he was running to or how he was going to get away from the situation. Eventually, he found himself in an empty bathroom stall, so he locked himself in and re-lit his cigarette.

******************************************************************************

In the corner of where Ringo was sitting, he could see George from the window as he ran in a hurry.

“Wait, what the hell?”

Paul set his bass by the wall.

“What’s the matter, Rings?”

“...I might have to leave for a bit. Something’s up with George.”

“What makes you think that?”

Ringo got up from his chair and made his way to the door.

“Just the way he was running. I think John might have gotten to him.”

“It’s not too unlike John to pull shit. Yeah, go ahead.”

Ringo left, and Paul plucked random notes on his bass to distract himself.

******************************************************************************

By the time Ringo had made it to the bathroom, there was this sense of dread filling up his soul. As soon as he could tell which stall was occupied, he knocked on the door, hoping to figure out what was going on.

“George? Are you in there?”

“...no?”

“George, it’s just me, Ringo. Something seems off, and I just want to help.”

“No.”

“...no, what?”

The stall unlocked, and Ringo slowly opened the door. Once the door was opened, Ringo found something that he wasn’t quite prepared for the possibility of dealing with.

George had sequestered himself into a smaller corner of the stall, holding his cigarette onto the crook of his elbow and muttering something Ringo couldn’t quite make out entirely. He was taken aback by Ringo holding out his arm and closely examining the various scars and marks on both of his arms. After some time, Ringo noticed something on his neck, so he moved George’s chin to examine it.

“George, what’s on your neck?”

“A hickey.”

“Bullshit.”

“...no, I’m telling the truth.”

“It looks like a scar.”

“...you’re right.”

“...what? George, please, talk to me. You’ve been strangely quiet lately.”

“I’m fine.”

“But you’re not.”

George grumbled a bit as he moved to a different corner of the stall, taking another drag of the cigarette that was barely lit.

“...something is bothering me. But it’s something petty and stupid. I really don’t want to bother you.”

“If it’s a bother, it’s not petty or stupid.” Ringo said, sitting next to George. “I just want to help you through whatever it is.”

“Ringo. I’m 25. I should be able to do this.”

“Cut the shit. 25 is not too old to need help with whatever it is that happens to bother you.”

“At this point, if anyone were to find out how bad things truly were, I’d just be shipped off to an institution and just completely brushed off.”

Throughout the conversation, Ringo noticed George heavily shaking and shivering. It was cold in the bathroom, Ringo noticed, but it didn’t seem cold enough to elicit a response like that.

“You know you can trust me, George. I’ve always been there for you.”

“It shouldn’t be your job, though.”

“Well, here and now, I am giving you full permission to speak your mind. Be honest with me, George. What’s bugging you?”

George sighed and lit the last of his cigarettes.

“...it’s all too much.”

“What’s all too much?”

“The band. Our tastes and motivations are all over the fucking place. There’s no… cohesion.”

“Right.”

“But it goes beyond that. I thought that the meditation was really helping my anxiety back in India. I had some talks with the Mahareshi, and I made the decision to go off of those anti-anxiety meds.”

“Wait, why? They were working really well for you.”

“I know. But the meditation… unlocked something that was hidden from my own mind. And I thought it  _ was  _ because of the meds. But that’s when it went downhill. I’m just… numb now. Nothing really excites me anymore, or makes me feel anything at all. Well, other than complete dread or panic. Sometimes both.”

“Have you had any panic attacks lately?”

“No. But I was sick of being so numb and faking smiles for the cameras. I just wanted to feel something.”

“I get it in a sense. What did you try?”

The two were silent for a bit.

“The night Brian died. After John left my house, I noticed that there was a knife that wasn’t in the knife block. I just wanted to put it back, clean up the kitchen a bit. But I ended up holding it for a while. I had this weird impulse to just… drag the blade across my hand.”

“Tell me you didn’t.”

George pointed to a white line on his hand, just below where 4 of his knuckles sat.

“...no…”

“I actually felt something doing that. Of course, I managed to clean everything up before Pattie got back.”

“She wasn’t home after the news broke?”

“No, I think she was with Jenny. When she got back home, she noticed my hand. I couldn’t bear to tell her what had actually happened, so I just said I fell on a rock.”

Ringo moved closer to George and rested his head on George’s shoulder.

“And I thought that that urge would go away. But it didn’t. It came back the next day.”

“And every day since?”

“...basically, yeah. And then after Brian’s memorial, something else happened.”

“Oh?”

“I went out to dinner with Pattie. We ordered a shared appetizer, but she didn’t want any. So I had like half of it. Before we got our mains, something clicked in me. I felt so… disgusting.”

“Why?”

“We had just paid our last respects to someone who had promised to make sure that I would never experience hardship in my life. And there I was, mindlessly eating a plate of onion rings meant for two. I felt like a horrible colleague, a terrible husband, just all around a bad person.”

“But you’re not.”

“But I am. And I had to do something about it.”

Ringo had been blindly tracing George’s fingers throughout this part of the conversation, and a horrible realization dawned on him.

“No… you’re not-”

“I am.”

“This makes no sense, George.”

“I know.”

“Hey. What did John say to you earlier?”

“He just made a stupid joke. Nothing too harsh.”

“He’s been poking and prodding at everyone recently. Digging at the deepest parts of our insecurities. Whatever he said had to have been absolutely atrocious.”

“He just told me that a baby could play the chords to my songs better than I was playing them. In all honesty, I needed a new perspective on that.”

“That’s not a new perspective. That’s a blatant insult. I know things have been rough recently, but he really needs to keep a lid on his temper. But did he say anything else?”

“...he said that at least his best friend wasn’t a razor blade.”

“...ok, THAT was below the fucking belt.”

“...and that he didn’t need to fill the void in his life with cigarettes and diet pills.”

“Wait. Have you been using diet pills?”

“Yeah. But so do a lot of other celebrities. Him saying that to me triggered my anxiety for some reason. So I had to leave.”

“Did he say something to you before you left?”

George nodded and started picking at his hand. Ringo grabbed his hand.

“What did he tell you?”

“...he said to go down the road, not across the street.”

“HE TOLD YOU TO GO KILL YOURSELF?”

“In a coded way, yes.”

“That’s horrifying. How-how did he even think to say that to you?”

“Wish I knew.”

“God, we can’t even trust each other to not instigate shit. We’re falling apart as a band, as friends, maybe even as brothers.” Ringo choked out, nearly in tears.

Out of what seemed like nowhere, Ringo pulled George closer to him and held him incredibly tight. George started softly crying after a minute or two.

In the midst of this emotional episode, Ringo noticed that he could clearly feel George’s ribs stick out. This set off an internal alarm bell, and he finally got the scope of just how bad things were getting.

“We won’t last the decade.” George shakily whispered, still in tears.

All of a sudden, Ringo got an idea.

“Hey, why don’t you stay with me? Not forever, just until you can get back on your feet. Maybe just tonight to start off, and if you need to be there longer, we’ll work something out.”

“I wish I could.”

“Why can’t you?”

“...what would your wife think?”

“Then she’ll have to talk to me about it. But what comes first right now is your safety and your mental health. Ok? You’re very important to me.”

“...ok. I’ll stay the night. But at the very least, I have to get back home to schedule an appointment with my doctor.”

“Yeah, we can work that out. Do you feel steady enough to leave now, or do you need a minute?”

“Yeah, I’ll get up.”

George stood up, gripping the walls in an effort to balance himself. Ringo placed a tender arm around his waist.

“I got ya. Take your time, there’s no rush.”

The two made their way out of the bathroom and back into the recording booth where John and Paul were now collaborating on a take of a song.

“Hey, you two. George and I are calling it quits for the day. It’s been a rough day.”

“Yeah, go ahead.” Paul said. “If you need to leave, you need to leave. We’ll come back tomorrow and figure everything out.”

George nodded and gave a well-meaning, but weaker than normal thumbs up.

“Hey, John.”

“What?”

“Why don’t you think before you speak? You got lucky this time, but if I find out that you triggered George again, it’s on sight.”

“Ringo, I’m right here.” George said briefly.

“How the FUCK did you find out that I said that?”

“Ringo, can we just leave?”

“Yeah, sure.”

The two left the room and headed towards Ringo’s car, George keeping a keen eye out in case John were to start following him.

“What’s his deal?” Ringo asked.

“Wish I knew.”

Eventually, the two piled in the car, and George tried making himself more comfortable in the passenger seat.

“Hopefully he mellows out sooner than later.” George mumbled.

“Mhm.”

Ringo started the car up, and the two made their way over to Ringo’s house.


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